An Impromptu Holiday
by JeanClaudeTheCat
Summary: The boys vacation in California. There's singing, there's banter, there's mulletrock, there's Dean in shorts and there's drunken Sam. And of course some groovy mystery fun! Lighthearted, noncrack fic in the same style as the show. [Final chapter 16 up!]
1. Gauze

Welcome to my second story EVER!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supenratural, etc.

* * *

Dean scanned the first-aid aisle in the pharmacy.

"We got antiseptic?" he asked Sam.

"Yeah," came Sam's muffled reply.

"We need gauze…" Dean mumbled, throwing a small packet into a shopping basket. He looked up with a frown at Sam's battered features and grazed shoulder. "We need _lots _of gauze…"

Dean gathered up three more packets of gauze and threw them in the basket.

After retrieving a crumpled-looking twenty dollar note from his pocket, he marched up to the counter and set down for the items which included burn cream, cotton swabs, gauze, painkillers and a large tub of gummi bears. A greasy-haired sales clerk stood at the counter, wearing a bright yellow nametag that read _Mark_.

The sales clerk looked at the brothers questioningly as he scanned the items through. Dean's eye was an interesting shade of purple and Sam's shirt was ripped beyond repair, revealing fresh angry grazes across his shoulder.

"That'll be fourteen fifty-seven," the clerk said in a bored voice. Dean handed over the cash.

"Hey, uh, Mark, have you got a bathroom we can use?" Dean asked the clerk in what he hoped was a friendly and non-threatening voice. The clerk sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, we do not have a bathroom available to customers which is located at this store," he said in a much practiced rhythm.

"Yeah but there's gotta be a staff bathroom. We wouldn't ask normally but we really need a sink because – well because _Sam_ here… was just in a bike accident," Dean said with a serious tone.

"Whatever dude," the clerk said, taking a key from under the counter.

'_Bike _accident?' Sam mouthed at Dean once the clerk had turned to open the door. Dean shrugged.

The bathroom was clean enough, and Sam sat down on the toilet as soon as he'd entered and began to inspect his wounds.

"Dean, hand me those tweezers." Dean retrieved the tweezers from a small bag of first aid equipment he kept in the Impala. It had been a while since he'd restocked the kit and Dean had decided to take the opportunity to fill it with cotton swabs and band-aids.

Sam winced as he tweezed a small fragment of glass from his left shoulder. Dean stared at Sam's hand.

"Shit, man, how'd you get burnt?" Sam glared at him.

"You kind of threw the match at me first, and not the casket," Sam said with a growl.

"Oh yeah."

Dean stared at his own reflection and gingerly felt the puffy area around his eye.

"Sam that spirit really let us have it, didn't he?" Dean said with a chuckle. Sam murmured something in reply, busy dousing himself with antiseptic lotion.

The brothers had just tackled the very unpleasant spirit of Derek Fouller, a recently-deceased retiree hell-bent on haunting his own grandson due to a feud regarding the treatment of a collector's edition _Happy Days _pinball machine. The case had been a great assurance to Sam that his family wasn't completely screwed up. Despite several wounds, a black eye and a nasty burn, Sam and Dean had triumphed over the spirit – the carcass having been thoroughly burned and ass having been thoroughly kicked. Unfortunately, Dean had decided to be thrifty and had checked out of the motel they'd been staying at right before they'd left to tackle the spirit - thus Sam and Dean were left to tend to their wounds in the staff bathroom of Gellar's Pharmacy. This was something Sam was most displeased about.

"Dean, I need a break," he said.

"Break from what?" Dean mumbled, applying lotion to his tender bruise.

"From this. From going from crappy motel to crappy motel, eating take-out and never having any really clean underwear."

"Well it's not my fault if you forget to do laundry."

"I need a break Dean. I need to stay in a place for more than three nights. I need to be able to sleep in and not worry about the next hunt," Sam said, suddenly sounding much more annoyed. Dean was surprised.

"So you wanna give up hunting, is that it? You want to go back to school?" Dean said, his voice much louder than he'd intended.

"No, not give it up. I just need a time-out, a break. I need a holiday."

Dean blinked several times and was quite amazed to discover that it made a noise.

"A holiday?"

"Yeah. A holiday."

* * *

**Long Beach – California**

Jaime awoke to the sounds of the neighbour's lawnmower coughing and spluttering what sounded like its last breath. She rolled over and suffered a brief moment of panic upon discovering the rest of the bed was empty. Then she spied the note:

_Jaime –_

_Sorry, didn't want to wake you - you looked so lovely asleep. Be ready when I get home at five – remember dinner with the parents? I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow. Love you._

_- Scott_

Jaime smiled as she read the note. Though dinner with the parents wasn't something she was looking forward to, she considered it very necessary. Mr and Mrs Kruger would probably be very interested in getting to know her better, especially considering Jaime was going to marry their only son in eight months.

Jaime rolled out of bed and ambled her way to the bathroom. She scooped up her dark hair into a rough bun and turned on the shower. She took off her engagement ring and inspected it with a smile before setting it on the bathroom counter. She peeled off the old t-shirt she slept in and jumped back when she saw a shadow in the steamy shower door. She looked back and it was gone.

Figuring it must be a trick of the light, Jaime stepped into the shower and let the water run over her.

After her shower, Jaime walked barefoot into the kitchen and stubbed her toe on one of the many boxes of appliances sitting on the tiled floor. After cursing Scott for leaving them there, she hopped to the fridge and poured herself a glass of juice. She looked out at the boxes stacked along the walls. She walked over to a box labelled _'Shirts' _and opened it. The scent of Scott's cologne wafted out and she drank in the smell. Jaime pulled out his favourite green shirt, ready for ironing. No doubt he'd want to change for dinner and having his clothes ready would avoid the usual confusion and time-wasting. She heard a thud across the room.

"Hello?" she called. There was no reply. "Scott?" She turned towards the sink and her eyes widened.

"Oh my God…"

* * *

Thanks for reading - reveiw and tell me what you think! 


	2. Breakfast

Yay! Part 2!! Exciting times about a THOUSAND!!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, then why would I write fanfiction?

* * *

**Three Days Later**

Dean murmured as he read the newspaper.

"Anything interesting?" Sam asked, looking up from his questionable plate of scrambled eggs.

"Nope," Dean said, quickly folding the paper. He set it down just before Sam was able to read the headline _Police Baffled by Long Beach Stabbings_.

Sam poked curiously at the scrambled eggs with his fork.

"Dean, this isn't food," he said simply.

"Dude, what are you talking about? Of course it's food. It's egg. Egg is food," Dean said without even looking up from his coffee.

"Well, why don't you try it then?" Sam pushed the plate across the table to Dean.

Dean leaned over and inspected the eggs with a grimace.

"No thanks, I'm fine with my coffee," he said finally.

"Should've ordered toast…" Sam mumbled in a barely audible voice. Dean sighed and pulled a wad of dollar bills out of his pocket.

"Here, get toast." Sam stared at the money for a short while before taking it and walking up to the counter. He returned minutes before the ageing waitress brought him a highly-stacked plate of toast surrounded by pads of butter and little packets of jam.

Sam pounced at the pad of butter and began to spread a slice thickly as the eggs lay forgotten on the edge of the table.

"Oh, this is terrible," Sam said soon after he took a bite.

"Terrible? It's toast! How is toast terrible?"

"I'm not sure. I thought it was impossible but it seems they've managed to screw up the toast," Sam said, setting down the toast. "Try it."

Dean picked up a slice and inspected it with a bemused expression. He gingerly took a bite and chewed in silence. It was several moments after he swallowed it before he spoke.

"Holy crap, how the _hell _do you fuck up making toast?"

Sam frowned at the food and took a sip of coffee.

"Aw, don't give me that look," Dean said at Sam's expression. "It's not _my _fault you chose to spend my money on inedible breakfast." Dean seized another slice of toast and began to spread it liberally with strawberry jam. Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Hey, where did you get the money to pay for breakfast? You've been broke all week. You haven't even payed _me _back for the first-aid money."

"You know," Dean said, clearly ignoring Sam. "If you put enough jam on this and take a sip of coffee after every bite you _almost _can't taste it."

"Did you take my money? You never paid me back and now you're just _taking _my money?"

"No, it's _my _money. Which Iearned." Dean leaned back in his seat and gave a proud smile.

"You actually mean _earned_? As in the generally accepted Webster's definition?"

"Yeah. You know how I was out last night? Well I got us some cash using one of my _many _talents."

"Oh, God," Sam began, with a wrinkled nose. "Dean, you didn't… _sell _yourself did you?"

"No!" Dean said, looking disgusted. "Poker, Sam. I played _poker._" Sam chuckled.

"Played/cheated. Same diff."

"Exactly."

"So how much did you 'win'?" Sam asked. There was a pause and Dean took a sip of coffee.

"Seventeen hundred. Only took me five hours too."

Sam looked around the diner conspiratorially and leaned in towards Dean.

"Seventeen _hundred_? Are you serious? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought I just did, Sam."

"So, why did you just suddenly decide to go and cheat an honest man out of seventeen hundred dollars? The Impala need new upholstery?"

"No," Dean said, shaking his head. "I figured we'd need it for our holiday." Sam looked sceptical.

"You mean an actual holiday? Like a rest with no work or demons or bad diner food?"

"Yup. A holiday."

Sam beamed at Dean across the table. Dean was instantly reminded of Sam as an eight year old when Dean had presented him with a newly purchased (or at least, very recently borrowed) Gameboy after they'd spent a week in some shit-hole of a town on a hunt. He looked exactly the same.

Of course, he'd had less hair then, Dean supposed. And probably not so much stubble. And, Dean thought begrudgingly, Sam wasn't taller then him in those days. But essentially the face was the same. Maybe a little more tanned.

It took Dean a moment to realise Sam was talking to him.

"Dean? What are you doing?"

"Picturing you when you were eight."

Sam blinked.

"Should I be… concerned?" he asked slowly.

"No more than usual. Eat up, Sammy. We should get going."

* * *

Sam woke up to the sound of Dean singing exaggeratedly to an AC/DC song Sam had heard many times before.

"Dean, stop."

Dean had always had an amazing ability to multi-task, and the fact he was singing with surprising enthusiasm while driving was an example of this.

"_If your name is on the guest-list, no-one can take you higher. Everybody say's I've got… great balls of fire!"_

"That's disturbing, please stop."

"_Oh, I've got big balls and -"_

"Seriously, dude, I will push you out of your own car."

Sam was annoyed for two reasons. Firstly: Dean's childish tendency to sing songs that were about as subtle as a fork in the eye, and secondly: the fact that Dean had refused to tell Sam where their holiday would take place, despite his nagging.

"_Some are held for charity, some for fancy dress. But when they're held for pleasure they're-"_

Sam reached for the volume but Dean slapped him away.

"I will _snap_ the cassette," Sam said. "I will." Dean continued singing to the music.

"_It's my belief that my big balls should be held every-"_

Sam threw his hand in the direction of the eject button and the tape flew out of the player and hit Dean in the knee. Dean stared forward at the road, open-mouthed.

"Ooooh, Sam, you're so lucky I'm in a good mood today," he said finally.

"So… where are we going?" Sam asked, changing the subject. "Are we almost there at least?"

"Not really. More than halfway there, though."

"What, are we going to Mexico?"

"Nope," Dean said, drawing out the word.

"So we're going to…"

"California, Sam."

Sam considered this information with a mildly impressed expression.

"California's good," he said eventually. "It's an actual holiday destination."

"So they tell me," Dean said, with a smirk. He selected a new cassette and pushed it into the player in a skilful movement. The music began to play and he smiled at Sam. Sam looked at him questioningly.

"It's _Going to California,_ Sam," Dean said. Sam gave him a blank stare. "By Led Zeppelin…" Sam nodded slowly.

"How… fitting. So what exactly are we going to be doing in California?"

Dean gave Sam a look which clearly indicted he thought he was insane.

"_You're _going to do whatever it is _you _want to do," Dean said. "As _you _where the one grumbling about needing a break."

"Thanks, Dean." Sam gave Dean a small smile.

"Thanks for what?"

"For taking time out to do this. I know you'd rather just keep hunting then spend a week being a tourist."

"Oh, don't think I'm doing this just for you."

"Oh?"

"Sam, it's _California_," Dean said, taking his eyes off of the road and giving Sam a meaningful look.

"Yes?"

"…In _beach _season."

"Ah."

* * *

Double line, oops.

Thanks for reading. PUHLEASE reveiw!!


	3. Lilac

Chapter three. WOO!!!

* * *

Dean yawned for the fifth time that hour and turned up the music.

"Dean!" Sam mouthed soundlessly. Dean squinted at him.

It was mid-afternoon and the brothers were travelling down a highway surrounded by stark patches of land and the occasional house. The fact Dean had stayed up all night player poker was starting to catch up with him, but he shrugged off the cloudy feeling and focused on driving. At least he _had been _focusing on driving, before Sam had decided to play charades or whatever thing it was he was doing.

Sam gave Dean an exasperated look.

"What? Sam, try saying something!"

Sam continued to mouth words at a rapid pace, pointing to the cassette player. Dean turned down the music.

"Dean I think we need to rest," Sam said, finally audible. "You were practically falling asleep at the wheel."

"I was _not _asleep, I just closed my eyes so I wouldn't get sand in them."

"You've turned the music up so loud to keep you awake that you couldn't even hear _me_."

Dean yawned again.

"See? You need to _sleep _dude."

"No, I can sleep when we get there," Dean said, waving his hand around.

"And how many hours until we're there?"

"Well, you know, if the _traffic's _good… about…"

"Mmm?"

"Eight hours."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Stop the car. We're going to a motel or something. Just for a few hours."

"Oh, that's a great idea, Sam. And where do you suppose we'll sleep? At that gas station a few miles back? Or maybe no-one will mind if we just camp out in the middle of the road, as we're in the middle of freaking no-where," Dean snapped.

"Well if you weren't half _asleep _you'd have noticed that we entered a town a few minutes ago. So if you just turn off the highway you're bound to find a motel or something."

"Oh, you're so smart, Sam," Dean said mockingly. "They should name colleges after you."

The brothers drove for several minutes longer until they came to a turn-off which led them to a small pocket of buildings.

"Sam, I hate to be negative but I don't really see any motels," Dean said. "I see houses and a bar… and I see a General Store. No motels though."

"Just keep looking."

"Wow, a Pool Hall!" Dean said sarcastically.

"Shut up."

Twenty minutes later the brothers had circled the town and stopped in front of the General Store.

"You know Sam, I hate to say I told you so, but… wait… no I don't! I told y-"

"Uh, Dean?"

"Mmm?"

"What's that over there?" Sam asked, gesturing towards a two-story house across the street.

"It's a house, Sam."

"Then why does it have a sign saying 'Vacancy' out the front?"

Dean silently pulled up to the house. "We can't stay here," he said, inspecting the sign.

"Why not? It says 'Vacancy'."

"Because it's not a motel."

"Oh."

The brothers sat in the Impala in silence.

"Well we could still-"

"No," Dean said, cutting Sam off. "We can't."

Sam sighed. "I hate it as much as you do, but I'm not really seeing any other _option _here…"

Dean look pained. "But it's a _Bed and Breakfast_, Sam! We can't stay at a Bed and Breakfast! Do you know what happens at these places?"

"People… eat scones?"

Dean looked over at the Bed and Breakfast and groaned.

"Dean, when it all comes down to it a room is a room. Does it really matter if it's covered in daisies?"

"Fine," Dean said, stepping out of the car and slamming the door. Sam followed him into the building. A plump woman with sparkling silver glasses stood at a desk inspecting some paperwork. She looked up as the front door bell chimed melodically.

"Good afternoon, boys," she said. Her voice was soft and perky and her smile genuine.

"Hi…" Dean said, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. There was a silence.

The room was small and completely covered in flowers. There were pink and yellow flowers on the cream wallpaper and dried flower arrangements on little tables. A couch sat in the corner upholstered in a luxurious peach fabric sporting a floral pattern. There was even the scent of lavender in the air.

"Can I… help you?" the woman asked, her voice faltering a little.

"Yes," Dean said, after a subtle jostle in the back from Sam. "We'd like a room for tonight, actually." The woman's face lit up.

"Well you're in luck! Our _Lilac _room is free. Normally we wouldn't have a vacancy – as you can imagine we're usually _fully _booked this time of year-"

"Oh, of course," Dean said, smiling a little too enthusiastically.

"-But we've had a cancellation. The _Lilac _room – we name all our rooms after flowers, you see – is really one of our most popular. Especially with somewhat _younger _couples, such as yourselves."

"Oh, uh, we're not a _couple_," Sam said quickly. "We're brothers."

"Oh, that's lovely," the woman said, clearly not listening. She took a key from underneath the desk and handed it to Dean.

"If you'd like to see it before you book it's the first door on your left upstairs," she said.

"Uh, no thanks," Dean said, grimacing. "I'm sure it's, uh, wonderful."

When Dean stood of the entrance of the Lilac room, he groaned.

"What?" Sam stood next to him, laden with bags and blankets retrieved from the Impala.

"It says _Lilac_. There is a hand-painted wooden sign here that says _Lilac_. It has glitter on it!"

Dean unlocked the door and froze.

"I can't do it. Sam, you look. How is it?" Dean leant against the doorframe while Sam peered into the room.

"It's… Lilac."

Dean opened his eyes and surveyed the room. "I suppose it's not so bad. It's got it's own shower, at least. Hey! Welcoming mints."

Sam threw all the bags in the corner of the room. "So…"

He looked over at Dean who was busy wolfing down the mints. "I guess…" he said, expecting him to interrupt. "I call the bed."

"That's fine," Dean said with a smile, pulling the purple cushions off the sofa and laying them next to the bed. "Guess I've got the floor."

"You seem too happy about that."

"What?" Dean pulled a blanket from his bag and laid it atop the makeshift mattress. "No, it's fine, _really_."

"Because you can have the bed, if you want-"

"No! No, it's alright," Dean said quickly, pulling a pillow off of the bed and laying it next to the pile of cushions and blankets. "Really, you _enjoy_… the… bed," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the bed.

"Oh God," Sam said, suddenly looking horrified. "You don't want the bed because this is a _couples _room… right?"

Dean didn't say anything; he just laid himself down on the floor and sniggered.

"Oh, God," Sam said again. "People have probably…"

"Sleep tight, Sammy."

* * *

"Hurry up, Sam!" Dean yelled from the driver's seat. Sam crammed his backpack into the trunk and opened up the passenger door.

"Hold this," he said, thrusting a styrofoam cup at Dean.

"What's this?"

"Coffee, Dean. It's this drink brewed from the roasted beans of-"

"You got _coffee_?" Dean said, looking distressed. "That place has _coffee_?"

"Yeah, Angie just put a pot on."

"Angie?"

"The owner. You met her yesterday…"

Dean stared at Sam.

"What?"

"We're very different, Sam…"

Several hours later, Sam had fallen asleep. Dean smirked to himself and turned on the radio. Sam jumped awake.

"_Momma… Oooohh… I don't wanna die-_"

"Oh, God. You're singing Queen."

"-_I'd never been born at a-all!"_

Dean moved to the music as Sam glared. Eventually he laughed when Dean began to 'sing' again.

"_I see a little silhouetto of a man…"_

"_Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?"_

"_Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening me!"_

"_Galileo," _Sam said in an un-naturally high voice through fits of laughter.

"_Galileo…"_

"_Galileo!"_

"Uh, Sam?"

"_Galileo Figaro… _wait, what?"

"We're here."

* * *

YAAY! That took far too long... Go on! Review! 


	4. Arrival

Firstly, I would like to mention that I am _NOT _American and know nothing about America, aside from the blatantly obvious stuff. Since I thought that's where this story would take place, being the country Sam and Dean LIVE in, I've set it there. Any facts about America are probably wrong, but I _did _do a little research. The point of this rant: If my facts are wrong, please tell me, but don't be mean about it. ;-)

Secondly, I love love LOVED the reveiws I received about the last chapter - a bit of a shock seeing as I wrote it when I was half asleep. Keep em coming :-)

Disclaimer: _Clearly _I do not own Supernatural, nor am I affiliated with it in any way. (Though I _am_ vying for the position of Mr Padalecki's personal assistant. Getting him coffee would be so damn awesome.)

**

* * *

**

**Long Beach – California**

Kirk reclined his brown leather recliner and cracked open a can of beer. He loved Fridays. It meant he could stay up as late as he wanted watching _Comedy Central _and not have his night dictated by the next day's activities.

A shot sounded outside and echoed around the small apartment. Kirk gazed at the window but didn't go up to it, not wanting to be a witness to acts of gang violence. He shook his head to no-one in particular and briefly pondered the deterioration of society.

He looked wistfully at the refrigerator at the other side of the room and reminded himself that there was nothing inside it besides a browning head of lettuce and two packets of rubbery cheese slices. He momentarily considered going to the closest supermarket chain and buying a few of those basic food items that every other home in America seemed to have – after all, he had recently been payed for a week's work – but decided against it. He wasn't too proud to admit that the thought of walking alone down a darkened street in Central Long Beach scared him more than the prospect of lunch with Hannibal Lecter.

He decided with a heavy sigh that the cheese was his only option. He clicked his chair upright and stood up – and immediately winced in pain. Kirk thought after months of lifting things for a living his body would get used to the strain, but to his surprise every week a new muscle ached and his back wasn't quite the same shape it used to be.

He ambled to the fridge and seized the generic supermarket-brand cheese. On inspection, the taste wasn't completely unpleasant so he placed the cheese on a plate and emptied the remains of a packet of crackers next to it. He set the plate onto his coffee table and went to the bathroom.

While in the bathroom Kirk heard the familiar click of his front door. He zipped up and ran to his bedroom and picked up an old golf club which he never had much use for. He crept back into the main room of the apartment and looked around. The chain was still on the door. He lowered the golf club and looked towards the kitchen.

"Hey!" Kirk yelled, purely because that's what they did in movies when an intruder was in their home. "What the fuck do you want?"

He heard a thud coming from his bedroom and wandered inside. He expected to see some teenager hopped up on crack rummaging through his drawers or a scared guy running from one of the more determined gangs that prowled the area. He didn't at all expect what he _did _see.

"Holy shit," he whispered. The golf club dropped to the floor.

* * *

Dean sauntered up to the hotel receptionist. She was young and had her hair elegantly knotted at the back of her head. Her expression was calm and she wore flawless makeup and a cream shirt that had the _Starfield Hotel_ logo prominently displayed on it. She gave Dean a smile that was half practiced courtesy and half flirtatious interest. 

"Hello, I made a reservation for, uh, James Page?" Dean asked in a soft voice. Sam stood next to him and gaped at the luxurious surroundings.

The walls of the lobby were painted various shades of grey and contrasted with the bright paintings that were hung at prominent locations. The highly glossed marble floor helped to reflect the light streaming through the large windows, giving the room a light, airy feel. Large sofas were placed in the corner of the room where people were sitting, deeply engrossed in conversation. Sam saw several staircases which led off to different floors, as well as three elevators lined up along the farthest wall.

"Yes, it's right here," the receptionist said, peering at a thick reservations book. "That was two one-bedroom suites with ocean views for five nights?" Dean nodded. "Now, you have the option of two adjoining rooms, each with its own personal bathroom. The adjoining rooms are priced slightly lower but you _would _be sharing a balcony. Of course, there is still the option of two completely separate rooms."

"The adjoining rooms would be great, thanks," Dean said with a charming smile.

"We're staying _here_?" Sam hissed excitedly, after Dean payed and was given the room keys. "For _five _nights?"

"We certainly are Sammy. I say, if you're gonna do something you might as well do it right. Just don't expect _this _kind of accommodation all the time. After this place it's back to dodgy motels with no room service."

"Fine with me."

* * *

"Dean did you know this place has _three _swimming pools?" Sam called, inspecting the information sheet in the room. 

"Actually I _did_," Dean called back. "And you probably won't find a dead guy in any of 'em, like last time."

Sam shuddered at the memory of the questionable motel they'd stayed at in Connecticut. He wandered to the balcony and looked out at the ocean from the fifteenth-story room.

"It's been so _long _since I've been anywhere near the beach. It's really a great view," Sam said, more to himself than anyone else.

"Certainly is," Dean said looking down at the beach. "Jeez, will you look at the pair on that redhead down there?"

"Dean, don't _point_!"

"What, is she gonna see me?"

"Yeah. Actually she's giving you the finger."

Dean stopped pointing. "So why don't you go down there, Sam? Maybe apologise for my behaviour, ey?"

"Maybe later. I think I'll stay up here for a bit. Do some reading."

"Reading? You're in California on a vacation and you're going to _read_?"

"I'll do what I want on my holiday Dean," Sam said walking back into his room. "So what're _you _going to do? Something really _exciting_, I bet."

"I think I'll drive around the place. Check out all the Californian sights," Dean said, following Sam back into the room. "Maybe I'll grab some food, I'm starving."

"I'll see you in a few hours then, I guess."

Dean took his keys and left the room. He ambled through the hotel and got into the Impala, safely parked in the hotel's underground parking lot. He pulled out of the parking lot and cruised down the beachfront street, enjoying the relaxed surroundings and balmy weather. Once he'd decided he'd soaked up enough of the atmosphere, Dean pulled out a street map and made his way to the residence of Scott Kruger.

* * *

Ah, it's over. Chapter four is OVER! No, don't cry! There will be more! 

One way you can _ensure _there's more, though, is by reveiwing. So get to it:-D


	5. Security

Chapter FIVE! Wow, is it that time already?

Thanks to everyone wo reveiwed! It was so nice to hear that people actually LIKE it. Now I hope I can keep writing stuff people like.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Really.

* * *

Scott Kruger had the hollow, tired look of someone who'd just lost their every happiness. He had thick light brown hair that badly needed a wash and an unattractive three-day stubble creeping about his face. He looked to be somewhere in his late twenties, but grief and an extreme lack of sleep made Scott look much older than he was.

He absent-mindedly handed Dean a mug of steaming hot water and milk. Dean stared down at the cloudy surface of the liquid.

"Uh, sorry, you forgot…" he began, pointing to the cup.

"Ooh, sorry. Did you want sugar?"

Dean considered Scott's vacant expression and scruffy appearance.

"Uh, yeah. Two thanks." Scott took the cup and stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar. He handed it to Dean, who took a sip of the completely coffee-free liquid.

They were sitting in the very empty-looking lounge room of Scott's large house. A few boxes of items were stacked against the walls and most of the furniture was gone. The only things left were a small table and the two mismatched chairs that the men were sitting at.

"So you said you wanted to ask some questions about the security system?" Scott said softly, looking across the room.

"Oh, yes. We checked it out and it's correct that the system detected no-one entering the house?"

"Yeah. That's what they told me. No-one opened the gate or punched in the code, according to the good people at Gladston Security."

Dean adopted what he hoped was a sincere-looking apologetic expression.

"Well, security systems are never one-hundred percent reliable. Technology hasn't extended far enough for anyone to create a system that offers complete protection. But what we strive for is the most reliable system humanly possible," he said, sounding very convincing.

"And would you say a system that allows my fiancé to be stabbed and mutilated in my own house is the _'most reliable system humanly possible'?_"

"Well, no," Dean said awkwardly. Scott stared down at the floor. "So, have you been experiencing problems with the system before… it's failure?"

"No, in fact it's usually very sensitive," Scott said bitterly.

"Had… your fiancé been experiencing any problems with it at all?" Scott looked up at Dean.

"No. Not that I know of."

"She never said anything about odd noises, or sudden spots of cold?"

"What kind of question is that? Jaime liked the system here and never experienced any problems with it. She never felt safe in her old neighbourhood, but she felt protected in this house. Are you done?"

"Almost. Now, Jaime was alone the day…"

"The day she was killed? Yes."

"And you were the one who found her in the eastern side of the house?"

"Why? What does it matter?"

"Gladston Security needs to know the details of the event so the system can be properly evaluated," Dean said uncomfortably.

"Okay, yes. I found her. I came home a little after five, and she was on the kitchen floor all… bloody," Scott began. His eyes still had a far-away look about them, and Dean noticed tears forming. "They said she'd been there like that since before midday. She was… stabbed, but it wasn't until she was inspected by a doctor that they realised that she was missing her..." Scott trailed off and covered his face with his hands. When he took a deep breath and removed his hands his face was disfigured with grief. "You know, they weren't supposed to put that part in the papers? That was supposed to be _classified_ information, but someone from the media found out and it was all over the news."

Dean placed a hand on Scott's shoulder but only received a puzzled expression for his small act of comfort.

"I'm sorry, I – you probably don't need to know all of that. But, yeah, the police scanned the house and found no place where the murderer could have entered. They're just… baffled. They even thought _I _might have had something to do with it. But I was at work and there's just… no way – with the time of death and everything. And why would I kill my own fiancé? We were having dinner with my parents that night," Scott said through thick tears. Dean felt thoroughly uncomfortable as Scott wept beside him. There was a long silence, and Dean looked around the room.

"So," he said eventually, not entirely sure Scott was listening to him. "Moving?"

"Yeah. I just can't stand to be here. I was only let back in here yesterday - 'cause the police have finished with it – but I can't stay. Soon as I get the rest of this stuff moved out I'm leaving. Jaime and I were moving really soon anyway… we found a place upstate to move to and start a family and everything."

"So how was she about the marriage?" Dean asked, figuring it was worth a shot. "Was she nervous at all? Did she ever have any weird dreams or think she was seeing strange things? You know, because of nerves?"

"Uh - nothing that she told me. What does that have to do with _anything_?" Scott asked, sounding frustrated. Dean shrugged. "Look, man, I think you should go. There's nothing more I can tell you."

"Do you mind if I take a look out back? I just need to inspect the system."

"Your guys already took a look at it."

"Well they… missed something."

Scott sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, but I'm going out soon so you'll have to be quick."

"Sure thing."

Dean left the room and wandered through the house. It wasn't a very new house, but it was in great shape as far as Dean could tell. It had the air of being so insanely expensive that it never seemed to look out of fashion.

Dean found the kitchen and flicked on the light switch. The room was almost completely empty – unlike the rest of the house, no boxes lined the walls of the kitchen. The only furniture was a table where various photo frames and glass vases rested alongside newspaper sheets, ready for packing. The tiled floor had been sloppily cleaned, so that small traces of diluted blood remained and had dried in abstract shapes. An outline of white tape remained on the floor, indicating the position Jaime had been in when she died. Dean pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the outline. He pulled out his old EMF meter and donned the earpieces, but froze when he heard footsteps approaching the room. He hastily pulled out the earpieces and put the disfigured walkman in his jacket pocket, just as Scott walked in the room.

"Hey, what are you doing in here?" he demanded, clearly angry. Dean paused and collected himself, ready for an explanation, but Scott continued. "What's that in your jacket? Are you stealing my stuff?"

"No, I was just-"

"The system's out the _back_, jerk. You shouldn't be in here. Get out. Get out of my house!"

"I'm sorry, I-"

"_Out!_"

* * *

Dean returned to the hotel to find Sam still inside his room. 

"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean said, walking through the unlocked door joining their rooms.

"What?" Sam said, looking up from his novel.

"We're in California, and you're stuck in the hotel room, reading!"

"It's a nice hotel room."

Dean shook his head.

"I don't understand you, Sammy. You say you need a break from hunting – a _holiday_. I bring you to California – I _pay _for the room – and you decide to become an antisocial hermit just for the occasion!"

"Well, you just spent some of _your _holiday time driving around! And you've been doing _that _for months straight. At least I got the chance to finish this book without being interrupted by a hunt or your dated 'music'."

"Sam, do you _want _me to kick you out on your ass?"

"Dean, I have an idea. How about you stop criticising how I spend my time and I'll stop criticising how you spend yours." Dean was silent for a moment.

"Fine. But _only _if you promise to get outside the motel room for a bit in the next few days! Get out there and swim at the beach, gamble at the casino, interact with females. I don't want to have spent all this money and have it just go to _waste_. I want to see you happy, Sam."

There was a pause, and Sam gave Dean a sly smile. Dean looked away quickly.

"I mean, just so you're not bitching at me that you never get to do anything."

"Sure, Dean. I'll go out and have fun tomorrow," Sam said mockingly. "…because I know _you're _not happy if _I'm _not happy."

"I can still revoke the hotel room, you know."

"And then maybe we can go down to the beach and build sandcastles!"

"I'm going back to my room."

"-and later have a campfire and sing songs about our feelings. '_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me-_'"

"And I'm locking the door."

* * *

I hope you enjoyed that! That whole scene took much longer than I'd planned :-/ 

I'd appreciate any feedback - good or bad!


	6. Muffins

Chapter six! Yeah, I know it's been a while. I've been busy.

Thanks too _everyone _who reveiwed!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. However, I'd have absolutely no qualms if someone decided to give it to me.

* * *

Dean awoke to something other than the stench of vomit smothered with industrial cleaner and smiled to himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so thoroughly relaxed. He could hear the generic ocean sounds drifting through the window and smell the salt in the air - also the feel of the two-hundred plus thread count linen against his skin was nothing less than euphoric.

He rolled over and breathed in the clean smell of his incredibly puffy pillow. There was a knock at the door.

"Dean?" Sam called from his room. "You want breakfast? I got some stuff from the café."

After a quick reflection Dean decided that yes, he _did _want breakfast and left the comfort of his bed to unlock the door.

"Ooh, bagels," Dean said by way of greeting. He seized the paper-wrapped bagel and devoured it with gusto.

"Oh, good morning to you too, Dean. I'm great, thanks for asking," Sam said, unwrapping a muffin and sitting down on a chair.

"So, where were you last night?" Dean asked moments later through a mouthful of breakfast pastry.

Sam smiled. "How'd you know I left?"

"You never did quite learn how to close a door quietly, Sammy."

"Ha, yeah. Well I took your advice. I went to the casino for a couple hours."

"… and?"

"And it was a casino. You know… cards, money, old ladies." Sam took a bite out of the muffin and immediately regretted it. "Uh, don't eat the bran muffins."

"Were there any not-so-old ladies? Ones that you talked to?"

"A few." Sam scratched his head and looked around the room, avoiding Dean's gaze.

"… and?"

"And I went, I talked, I left."

"Talked? That's it?"

"Yeah. Stop asking all these questions, you sound like a twelve-year-old girl," Sam snapped. Dean glared at no-one in particular and chose a bran-free muffin from the bag.

"Did you at least win anything?"

"I won three hundred dollars," Sam said proudly. "Well, actually I won _five _hundred but then I lost two hundred playing-"

"Three hundred, hey? You spend it on anything _wild_?"

"Well, so far… breakfast. And a newspaper," Sam said, waving the newspaper at Dean. Dean took it from him and inspected the front page, before looking up at Sam. Sam interpreted Dean's sarcastic expression as concerned. "Yeah, I know. That Kirk Miller guy was stabbed not that far from here."

Dean continued staring.

"What?"

"You do lead an exciting life," Dean said, rifling through the breakfast packaging.

"Well, at least I went _out _last night."

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean said, motioning to the breakfast. "You forgot the most important part of breakfast! _Coffee_!"

"You just had nine hours sleep. Do you _need _coffee?"

"Yes! _Always _need coffee, Sam!"

* * *

Dean gave an exasperated sigh as he waited for the hotel café barista to make his triple espresso. He glanced at his watch in an obvious way to give the impression that he had somewhere important to be. He hoped that people would ignore the fact he was wearing a t-shirt that he'd obviously just slept in.

"Oh, yeah, they think it's related to the murder of the Wells girl last week."

"I heard about that. So sad… But the new body was found intact wasn't it? That's what it said in the paper."

Dean could hear a woman talking to the café waitress in a hushed tone and decided to put his excellent eavesdropping skills to use. He stopped his feigned display of impatience and tilted his head to listen.

"Well, no. Apparently this body was found in the same state as Jaime Wells'."

Dean frowned at nothing in particular and stepped a little closer. Unfortunately their conversation was interrupted by the smash of glass from behind the counter.

"Aw, crap. I gotta go. Glenn just smashed something _again_."

A fashionably dressed waitress walked into Dean's line of vision and immediately started reprimanding a scared looking barista. Dean turned around to see the hotel receptionist, the woman to whom the waitress had been talking, sitting at a small table enjoying a tall latte. He sat down at the table next to her. She acknowledged him with a slight smile and sipped her coffee.

"Excuse me," he said softly, pointing to the newspaper at her table. "Sorry to bother you on your break. Do you mind if I borrow that? I just wanna see the headlines." She looked startled for just a moment before handing him the paper.

"Yeah, sure, go ahead."

Dean scanned the front page and began to read the article on the murder of Kirk Miller. He was interrupted when the waitress served him his triple espresso.

"Thanks," he said, taking a sip.

"So," the receptionist said once the waitress had left. "Enjoying your stay at Starfield Hotel?"

"Mmm? Oh, yes, it's great." Dean turned his attention to the newspaper again.

"You were here with someone weren't you?"

"Oh, yeah. Sam, my brother. I'm Dean."

"I thought your booking was under James?"

Dean paused.

"Uh, well, yeah. James is my... middle name. Well it's his middle name as well, so we're both kind of… James Page," he said, nodding.

"Oh, that's great," she said, smiling flawlessly. "I'm Claire."

"Nice to meet you Claire," Dean said. He glanced back at the newspaper, the article on Kirk Miller prominently displayed. "Well that's just terrible. It's awful to see that in the news everyday."

"Yeah. I was just saying, it… it is terrible," Claire said in a tired voice, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Do they know why he was killed? A robbery, gang violence? It says here he was stabbed pretty viciously."

"Well it's not in there, but the police think it's a serial killer. The same person who killed Jaime Wells last week."

"Was she stabbed too?" Dean asked, an almost believable expression of uncertainty on his face.

"Yeah. I have a friend who lives in the same building Kirk Miller lived in and she heard things. Kirk and Jaime were both alone and found stabbed. In both cases no-one could figure out how the murderer got in there, there's just no evidence."

"Yeah, but, two stabbings. It's a pretty common way to kill someone. Why do they think it's the same person?"

Claire leaned in.

"Well, after the autopsy, they found both bodies were missing their heart. And the creepy thing is that it wasn't cut out, the wounds aren't right. The heart is just not there. Like it got dissolved or liquefied or something."

"Ugh," Dean said, frowning. "That _is_ creepy."

"Yeah. My friend's really freaked out too. She said Jaime used to live in that building."

"Really?" said Dean, honestly surprised.

"Yeah, I'd never met her or anything. But it's pretty obvious whoever did this lives near there."

Dean finished his coffee and stood up.

"Well, thanks for letting me borrow that," he said, placing the newspaper on Claire's table. "I have to go. See you around."

"Dean, Wait!" Claire called after him. Dean turned. "I'm not supposed to do this but… do you think we could have coffee again?" Dean smiled.

"Yeah. I think we could do that."

* * *

Woo! Chapter finished! Reveiw and I shall love you forever!


	7. Football

Yeah. It's been a while. Get used to this new slower rate of updatedness. I have more stuff to do lately. Which is both a good and a bad thing. :-)

* * *

The football hit Sam square in the temple. Although he was - compared to most people - a fairly focused reader, at that moment he was brought sharply back to reality. A football to the head tends to do that.

He'd been sitting on the sand reading a novel he'd actually forgotten he owned. It was relaxing on that beach, and he enjoyed watching all the beachgoers buzz around him. It wasn't often he was able to sit and just unwind.

Sam looked around but couldn't see his attacker among the beachgoers. He picked his book up off the sand and smoothed his hair. He had just managed to find the paragraph he was up to when he was interrupted again.

"Oh, God, are you okay?"

Sam stifled a frustrated sigh and looked up at the worried face of someone oddly familiar. Her eyebrows were furrowed over her light brown eyes and her forehead was wrinkled with concern.

"Yeah," he said to the woman. "I'm fine." The woman looked slightly relieved.

"Are you sure? Danni has a pretty decent throw."

"Really, it's fine."

A second woman stumbled up towards them. Her hair was a much lighter blonde than her friend's and her skin much more tanned. Rather than looking worried, this woman was on the verge of laughter.

"Oop, sorry, my bad," she said, not looking at all sorry. "I didn't see you there. I don't know _why _this keeps happening today." She gave Sam a grin, all sparkly teeth and energy. "So where's the ball?"

She stumbled off in search of the ball.

"I'm really sorry about that," the first woman said, looking over at her friend. "She's getting married in a week. So for the last three days she's been acting like she's… well, fourteen." She brushed a hand through her dark blonde hair.

Sam laughed. "So you're here together to celebrate?"

"Yeah, there's four of us. Why have a bachelorette party when you can go on a six-day bender three states over?"

The woman smiled, and Sam noticed it was a sincere smile that reached all the way to her eyes. She wore blue shorts and a white t-shirt and looked extremely tired.

"Why indeed. Have we met? Because you both look _very _familiar."

The woman chuckled.

"Yeah… last night at the casino."

"Oh. _Oh. _Your friend… Danni was the woman who kept waving. I didn't recognise her without the tiara."

"I'm sorry about that too. If it helps I don't think she'll ever be quite that drunk again," she said. There was a pause. "I'm Ally, by the way."

"I'm Sam."

"Sorry _again _Sam," Danni said, all of a sudden appearing behind him holding the football. "I'm just so _clumsy _today." She laughed again and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I hear you're getting married," Sam said with a kind smile.

"Yeah. Not for a week though," she said with a playful grin.

Sam laughed uncomfortably. "Well, congratulations."

"Thanks. You wanna join?" Danni brandished the football.

"No," Sam said a bit too quickly. "It's just… a really great part in the book."

Danni shrugged. "Okay then. I gotta go, but maybe I'll see you around?"

"Maybe."

"Bye Sam." Danni beamed at him and skipped off to her friends. Sam stared after her in disbelief.

"I just finished reading that," Ally said, nodding to Sam's novel. "You read a lot of his?"

"Yeah, when I get the time."

"I spent all last summer reading his_ Freight Train _series. Best way to spend a summer if you ask me."

"I've only read the first one. I'd like to read more but I'm just so busy. And my brother already wants to kill me for reading so much on vacation."

"Well I can lend you the rest if you ever get him off your back," she said lightly. She looked back at her friends. "Ah, Danni's waving, I gotta go."

"Ah, go. Celebrate."

"Yeah. But maybe I _will _see you around?" Ally tilted her head.

"Maybe. I'm here a few more days at least. See you, Ally."

"Bye, Sam."

Ally sauntered off across the sand. Sam watched her look back at him and he smiled.

He switched his attention back on his novel, but for some reason he couldn't achieve the same level of focus.

* * *

Dean slammed shut the hotel room door just because he felt like it. He'd had a rotten day. He'd checked out the building Kirk lived in and found the residents extremely unpleasant. He'd only managed a quick look at the place, and nothing came up on the EMF meter. No sulphur, no signs at all. And no-one was willing to tell him anything.

It was the same in Jaime's old place, although he'd used less than legal means to gain entrance into the apartment. He was taking a reading in the bathroom when the current resident came home and screamed at him. The old lady was stronger than she looked, Dean mused, especially when armed with that umbrella. He winced when he took off his jacket and inspected his arm. No damage, but that would bruise up nice and purple by morning. And his back was killing him. Dean supposed he'd pulled a muscle when he dodged the umbrella and smacked into the couch.

He rummaged through his bedside drawers, hoping for something to give him relief. He celebrated when he found a white hot-water-bottle with the hotel logo printed on the side. He filled the small hotel kettle with water from the basin and set it on to boil.

Minutes later, Dean heard the door to Sam's room shut.

"Sam?"

Sam entered Dean's room.

"Oh, God," Dean said, noticing Sam holding the novel. "Don't say you're gonna spend the whole day up here again."

"Nope. As a matter of fact I was just down at the beach."

"-reading?" Sam looked away. "Well," Dean continued. "I suppose it's a step in the right direction."

The kettle clicked happily.

"Oooh," Dean said. "My water's done."

Sam looked on in bemusement. "Why the hot-water-bottle?"

"Mmm?" Dean said as he filled it with the water. "Well, it's for my back. It's been killing me. I, uh, think I slept weird or something." Dean screwed on the bottle cap.

"Ah."

Dean slapped the hot water bottle onto the couch and laid himself on top of it in an awkward half-sitting position.

"Mmm, I forgot how much this helps."

Sam stared at Dean, with a slightly curled lip. Dean shifted a little on the couch.

"Oh _God. _Yeah, oh that's nice," Dean groaned.

"Do you want to be… alone with the bottle?" Sam asked. Dean pulled a face.

"So how was the beach? Did you find that redhead?"

Sam couldn't help chuckling a little at Dean's face. "No. But I saw a few people who were at the casino last night."

"Oh yes?"

Sam explained to Dean what happened at the beach. Dean gave him a meaningful look.

"What?" Sam spat out at Dean's expression.

"Being so interested in you book? Battering her eyelashes-"

"She didn't _batter her eyelashes_," Sam interjected.

"-'See you around.' She wants into your pants, Sammy. And you should let her in there," Dean said with raised eyebrows.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer," Sam said after a silence.

"Come on, man. You're on vacation. You should _go _for it."

"I don't have to sleep with her just because _you _say I should," Sam said, backing out of the room.

"Of course you do! And it's not me, it's fate. The elements are inspiring together to get you laid."

"It's _con_spiring."

"Whatever. You know I'm right," Dean said with a struggle.

"I'm going. Have fun with the water-bottle."

* * *

Ah, that was fun! The posting I mean. Or something. You know the drill! Reveiw!! 


	8. Elevators

Sorry... It's been AGES since the last post! And then the site wouldnt let me upload but I cracked it! HaHA!

Thanks for reading this far!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. :-(

* * *

Sam held the box of muffins in one hand and the bag of doughnuts in the other. He balanced the coffee tray between his bent knee and the wall and blindly jabbed at the elevator call button with his elbow. 

Once he'd gotten in the elevator and hit the button for the fifteenth floor he slumped against the side and rearranged the parcels of breakfast goods. He also took the opportunity to fix his hair in the mirrored surface – the back was doing that weird stickey-outey _thing _again – and reflect briefly on his choice of breakfast.

When the elevator dinged merrily Sam shuffled out through the door – and into the hotel receptionist. The awkward collision resulted in Sam dropping the coffee (which inexplicably defied the laws of physics and landed upright on the floor) and the bag of muffins.

"Oh, so sorry," the receptionist murmured, picking up a blueberry muffin which had tumbled away. "I've just… wrecked your breakfast."

"No, really, they're wrapped anyway," Sam said, picking up the coffee which had remained largely unspilled. The woman looked up and her eyes widened.

"Sam, right?" the receptionist said, handing Sam another muffin. "You're, uh, not going to tell anyone about all this, are you?"

"About what? You helping me pick up breakfast?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah. Don't worry. Enjoy the rest of your stay." The receptionist pushed the elevator close button and smiled. Sam was left standing alone in the hallway, feeling slightly confused and very hungry. He entered his hotel room and called out to Dean through the door.

"Breakfast!" There was no response. Sam sighed. "Coffee!"

He heard the shuffling of feet and the dividing door opened, revealing a very awake and relaxed-looking Dean. "I heard you," Dean said, picking up the coffee. Sam looked into Dean's room and saw the state of the bed and the random items of clothing strewn about the floor.

"So," he said, already most of the way through a muffin. "Had a good sleep? No interruptions?"

"Yeah, great sleep. I think the left side of that bed is better for my back." Dean bit into a raspberry doughnut and gave a smile of relief. "Doughnuts are good."

"So, you slept soundly all night and this morning? No… visitors?" Dean paused, the coffee held in mid-air inches from his mouth.

"Well, some staff lady came by," Dean said with a smile. "You know, had to check up on something about the booking."

Sam gave Dean a look.

"What?"

"It'd be more believable if you said that _after _you hid the pantyhose hanging on the nightstand." Dean looked back at the pantyhose.

"Well, it's crazy. Making women wear pantyhose on a Californian summer day."

"Could you tell me next time you decide to have… company in the room next to mine?"

"Why? You wanna sit there with a glass pressed to the wall?"

"No. Just I could have accidentally walked in or something. What if I wanted to ask you what you want for breakfast?"

"You know what I have for breakfast," Dean said with furrowed eyebrows.

"That's not the point."

"Fine, I'll give you warning next time or hang a tie on the doorknob. Just so you don't 'accidentally' walk in and soil your pure mind."

"Thanks. So, Dean. What's on the agenda today?" Sam took a sip of his coffee and lent back in his chair. Dean looked at him for a moment and saw a looseness in his shoulders and something rounder about his face. And his forehead has stopped doing that tight crinkly thing it had been doing for the last eight months. Sam seemed to be really relaxed for the first time in a long time.

"Nothing, man. Beauty of a vacation. How about you?"

"I thought I'd take a walk along the beachfront. I wanna check out a bookshop I passed yesterday and there're all sorts of record stores by the jetty. You wanna come? I don't think you've spent any time at the beach so far."

"Hmm, I suppose I should. What's the point of going to California if you're not going to see the beach?"

"Besides sex with four-star hotel staff?"

"Right."

Twenty minutes later Dean pounded on Sam's door, his hair still damp from the shower. "Hurry up!" he called. Dean took a step back when the door opened.

Sam emerged from his room looking just so… _Californian_. He'd put on sunglasses and a vintage style tee-shirt Dean hadn't seen before. His unintentionally messy hair had a distinctly beachy look to it, something which Dean secretly envied. He looked a little younger, a little more carefree, like a college student on vacation.

"You're not _wearing_ thatare you?" Sam said with a frown. Dean looked down at his jeans and boots. He was wearing a grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide the painfully purple bruise developing on his arm.

"What? This is what I wear."

"You can't wear that on a beach in the summer. You'll look ridiculous."

"Well, sorry, my hot pants are in the wash." Sam shook his head.

"I might have something…" he mumbled, retreating into his room.

Twenty more minutes later Dean shuffled along the sand, looking down at his feet. Sam walked wordlessly along beside him. Dean mumbled something under his breath.

"What?" Sam said.

"I said I would look _less_ ridiculous in the jeans," Dean said, slightly louder this time. Sam sighed.

"You don't look ridiculous." This was technically not true. The clothes did not make Dean look ridiculous, Sam decided. It was more the awkward way he was walking on the sand, and the fact that his legs were blindingly white after months – possibly _years _– of being covered up with jeans that made him look slightly ridiculous. Only _slightly_.

"But I'm in _shorts, _Sam. You know how I feel about shorts. And flip-flops!" Dean motioned to the navy-blue board shorts and gray flip-flops.

"Heaps of people are wearing flip-flops."

"Yeah, but it suits everyone else. They are all flip-flop people," Dean said, waving his arms at the beachgoers. Sam tried to avoid the gaze of a family staring at Dean - the crazy bruised man waving his arms around. "You can tell _I'm _just not a flip-flop person."

"What's a flip-flop person?" Dean gave a frustrated grunt. "No, really," Sam continued, his face still but his eye quivering with suppressed laughter. "Is someone _born _a flip-flop person, or is it something earned from wearing them all the time?" Dean shook his head and stepped away from Sam as they walked. "Oh, or is it a _gradual _thing? You know, start out with sandals and progress to other levels?"

Dean stomped ahead of Sam. He felt less awkward now that he had being annoyed at Sam to focus on and he'd almost got the hang of the flip-flops and the sand. Dean's careful flip and flop rhythm was interrupted by a click behind him. He turned to see Sam quickly hide his phone behind his back. Dean glared.

"Sorry, I just needed a photo."

* * *

Dean sighed. He'd been at the local library looking up history on Kirk's apartment building for two hours, and the search was turning out to be irritatingly fruitless. 

The building had had its fair share of death – after all, Dean thought, what do you expect for Central Long Beach? – but nothing really leapt out at Dean and bit him on the nose. Not that he actually expected anything to _do _that, but he usually felt it when he had a lead, and right now he couldn't feel anything but his injured arm.

There had been a few heart attacks and beatings, but nothing suspicious. Not a single suicide or a violent murder. The building site hadn't been the scene of anything significant, and Dean couldn't find anything shady about past or present residents. After hours of searching Dean was thoroughly convinced that this was the most boring apartment building on the West Coast. And he was very aware that the library had a weird smell.

Dean switched his search from the apartment building to the other crime scene: the house of Scott Kruger. Dean typed in the address and was amazed to find an extraordinary amount of hits on the place. He took advantage of the free printing at the library and printed out six pages and read through the first few articles. The place had been owned by a famous author sixteen years ago. It was the highest valued property in the suburb, and it had burned down in ninety-four. Dean shook his head and re-read the last paragraph.

After several moments Dean realised he'd typed in the wrong house number. Research was certainly easier with Sam, Dean considered. When he searched the correct house he found nothing. It had been owned mostly by married couples until the late eighties, when it had been bought by a Mr Harold Kruger. Dean supposed this was Scott's father. He was still listed as the owner.

The house hadn't been the site of any deaths and it didn't have a history of violence. It was a house that didn't make headlines. Dean decided to give up on the research and go back to Kirk's apartment building. Hopefully most of the crime-scene buzz had died down and he could get another shot at questioning some neighbours. He was eager to question a guy named Kevin Bailey who had known Kirk better than anyone else in the city and lived in the apartment across the hall, but hadn't been home when Dean last explored the building.

Dean left the library, endlessly glad to be free of the stale library smell. Minutes later, he pulled up in front of the apartment building. He grimaced at the graffiti-covered concrete.

Dean stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for level two. He stepped back and saw a middle-aged woman leaning against the elevator. She smiled at him.

"Hey," she said simply. She had dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail and wore faded jeans and a tee shirt.

"Hey," Dean said with a nod. He turned away from the woman to look at the elevator door.

"I know what you're doing."

Dean looked back, and the woman had taken a step closer to him. "You should stop," she continued.

"Why should I stop?" Dean asked slowly, thoroughly convinced this woman was insane. She'd have to be, Dean thought, to wear those terrible jeans.

"Because you don't know everything. You think you're helping but you're not. You have to stop." Dean smiled at her.

"Do you mind telling me what I should stop doing?" The elevator stopped and the door opened. Dean stepped out of the elevator and looked back at the woman. She was gone.

* * *

Thanks for reading that! Hope it wasn't all filled with errors or anything... Reveiw! Come ON... you know you want to! 


	9. Hiding

Ah, It's been a while. But I've been busy.

That's a lie. Truth is, I'm addicted to Gilmore Girls. Yup.

Anyway, here's an astoundingly long chapter to make up for the lack of updates! I've just noticed it's very Dean-centric. In fact, a lot of this story is. I guess it's easier to write as Dean or something. Damn Sam's mysterious exterior. (haHA, try saying THAT five times fast!)

Ok, I'm rambling.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Do I really NEED a disclaimer? Isn't there just a blanket one for this site?

* * *

Dean shrugged. After years of the same profession he'd gotten used to weird stuff happening. It was likely that the woman he saw was an apparition. Or a spirit. Or even a demon. Possibly some sort of shapeshifter. In fact, the more Dean thought about it the more he realised he really didn't have any real idea what had happened. 

"Shit."

Dean sauntered across the hall and knocked on the door of Kevin Bailey. A man answered. He wore a grey t-shirt and a tired expression. His face was kind and his body strong but round, like an athlete who'd gone to seed.

"You must be Kevin Bailey," Dean said in the manner he'd practised not to sound _too _practised. The man nodded. "I'm Detective Simmons with the police." Dean flashed a fake badge. "I left a message on your machine?"

"Oh, yeah. Come in."

"Sorry I just turned up out of the blue like this," Dean said, with an air of professionalism. "But I thought if you weren't too eager to see me I could still try my best to get a meeting."

"Yeah. I was going to meet with you, really. I just… had so much shit going on…" Kevin Bailey spoke carefully, with a stunted southern accent.

Dean nodded solemnly. Grief-stricken people were just a normal part of his line of work, but no matter how much loss he'd seen Dean never quite knew how to deal. He was never as comforting as he'd liked to have been. That was Sam's domain. So Dean always opted for a hands-off, respectful nod. "I understand."

"Well, that's a lie," Kevin said, shaking his head. "I wasn't going to meet with you. No offence, I just don't really like cops."

"Well if it helps," Dean said with a smile, "I'm not really a cop."

Kevin laughed. "That's funny. I like funny. Come on in." Dean followed him inside the apartment. It was small, stuffy and dirt-stained. But it looked neat, and it didn't have the same smell of mildew that haunted the rest of the building.

"So, you said something about an interview. I've already told you guys everything I know so I dunno how much help I'll be."

"Well we had a small error filing the interview and now we need to verify a few things." Kevin stared at Dean blankly. "You know, the new guy."

"Oh, yeah. Tell me about it. Just last week I went down to Billy's sandwich bar – you know the place - and they had this obnoxious pipsqueak new guy workin' and I just _knew _that he'd screw up my order. I had to explain my usual - 'Ham on rye, no mustard, extra mustard pickles on the side' – and I get my sandwich, and the he's put the mustard pickles inside it. And it's friggin' _toasted_." Kevin laughed cynically and Dean chuckled uncomfortably. "But Kirk wasn't like that. In the seven years I've known him and the two years I've worked with him he's been great – a real people pleaser."

"You work with him?"

"Well, yeah. Sorta. I've worked for Carson Movers for… oh, goin' on four years now," Kevin said, looking everywhere but at Dean. "And Kirk'd help me lift some things, we'd split the wage. He's listed on their payroll as a sub, so it was perfectly legit. He filled in for me a few weeks ago when I was visiting my sister in Texas. But he never cheated on tax or anything like that, officer-"

"Detective."

"-Yeah, Detective. He was as honest as the grass is green. Which is what makes all this so hard to understand. I don't know why anyone would want him dead. Except maybe his ex-wife, but she was always a little bit-" Kevin pulled a face.

"Ah," Dean said in agreement.

"But she's been livin' in Toronto for the last eighteen months. Kirk lived a simple life, you know? He worked moving stock for _Shop 'n Save_, and he came home. That was his life. Sometimes we'd have poker nights or he'd get bored and decide to start a project or something. He painted his apartment five weeks ago, and he said he was going to do mine. It needs a touch up."

There was a pause while Dean looked around the apartment and agreed that any colour would look better than the chipped and grubby cream paint that covered the walls.

"So there was nothing out of the ordinary in Kirk's life that could explain why he was targeted?" Dean asked.

"No, I mean... He was just normal. Maybe a little bit more paranoid than usual – the crime in this suburb really got to him some days. I'm sorry I'm not much help. But hey, I might have some things for you," Kevin said, retreating into a room. Dean stood awkwardly near the door as he heard Kevin rustle through some drawers. He came out of the room and handed Dean a pile of papers.

"I have a bunch of his letters that got delivered to my apartment by mistake. I haven't opened any of them. Well, I opened two until I realised they weren't mine."

"Did you find all of these today?"

"Well, no. I told you I don't really like cops. And the way some of 'em were questioning me right after… it happened, they made it sound like I had something to do with it. Like I was there. Shit, I was the one who found him, but that's only because he had his TV on real loud at 5am, and I wanted some sleep. Anyway, I guess I got kinda mad and I didn't give the officer all this stuff. But you seem different somehow so… here you go. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't say anything."

"I wont, Kevin. You can count on that."

* * *

Dean scanned through the letters as soon as he'd left the building. There were a few bills, a catalogue, three payslips from Kirk's jobs, a bank statement and a rather hostile (although not murderous) letter from his ex-wife, Judy. Nothing that indicated Kirk had an unusual level of paranoia. 

He set down the letters as he pulled out of the parking space. It felt a little bit sad, going through that pile of papers. Dean felt as though he had just skimmed through Kirk Miller's entire existence. And it hit Dean hard in the chest, like bad Mexican food, that a guy had died – a perfectly nice guy, according to his sources – and all that was left of him was a pile of papers that had been stolen by another guy posing as a cop. Well, Detective. What was even sadder, Dean thought glumly, was that when _he _died there wouldn't even be letters left behind. That's what came of not having a home. And being wanted for murder in Missouri.

Dean shook his head. He attributed his sudden pensiveness to a severely critical lack of caffeine and pulled into a park outside a coffee shop. The place was nice, not too gaudy or bright, with a strong coffee smell and cute waitresses with big hair and tiny waists.

Dean was served by the only male assistant in the place – a bronzed, stylish fellow who smiled breezily and left his gaze on Dean a little bit longer than appropriate. Dean ordered strong, unsweetened coffee and declined the offer of complimentary biscotti. He flicked through Kirk's letters again and decided to leave them for a time when his brain was properly caffeinated. He looked around the place as he waited for his coffee (really, how hard can a long black _be?_) and took particular notice of a blonde woman sitting in a booth alone. Dean considered her snug fitting t-shirt and amber hair with interest until he noticed a man approach her booth. He inwardly scowled as the man looked briefly around the shop. Dean saw Sam's familiar brown eyes and dark hair, and immediately leapt off his chair under the counter.

Was Sam on a date? If so, he certainly wouldn't want Dean there, 'cramping his style' (or, in Dean's opinion, outshining it). Had Sam _seen _him? Would he think Dean was spying on him? Dean hadn't done that since he was twelve and had resolved never to again once he'd discovered that Sam's life was considerably more boring than his own.

Dean stayed pushed below the counter, out of view from almost everyone except a couple teenagers and an old woman, not exactly sure why he had ducked in the first place. If Sam came over he'd see the letters and so far Dean's power of getting people to believe his lies hadn't extended to his little brother, but that wasn't all of it. Dean didn't want to intrude on Sam's holiday (his first one, well, _ever_, Dean realised) and walking in during what could be a date would definitely fall under the intruding category.

"Uh, hello?" Dean saw a tanned male hand wave over the counter above his head. "You're coffee's ready."

"Thanks," Dean said, poking his head out from the counter a little bit. "Just leave it there."

Dean was receiving strange looks from at least five different people.

"What are you _doing_?" a bleached-blonde teenager asked, a horrified look on her face.

"Oh, God, no," he said to all the people staring at him. "I'm not a pervert or anything. I'm hiding."

"Huh," the teenager said. "Hey, were you on _Dark Angel_?"

"What?"

"Uh," the assistant said to him. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Dean said, still not visible from under the counter. "Hey, you see that dark-haired guy over there by the window?"

"The guy with the moustache?"

"No, the one behind you in the booth with the lady." Dean shifted himself a little so he was crouching down behind a fern - still hidden from Sam's view, but looking less like a crazy person.

"Ooh, the gorgeous tall one in the check shirt?"

"Uh, yeah. Whatever."

"Hmmm, sorry. He looks straight."

"What? I know he's straight. _I'm _straight!"

The assistant looked at Dean for a moment.

"Hmm, give me five minutes and I could change your mind."

"Uh, no thanks. What's he doing? Is he looking over here?"

"No. Although his friend is looking over here at me because I'm staring. Wait, _now _he's looking over here."

"Hey, could you pour my coffee in a cup to go?"

Minutes later, Dean walked stealthily out of the coffee shop, coffee in hand, and got into his car. He sat in the driver's seat for a little while and realised for the first time that despite being such a geek, Sam knew how to spend a holiday. He'd bought things, met people and would probably interact with them longer than the time it took to to have a one-night stand. All anti-social Dean really knew, really felt _right _with, was hunting.

* * *

Thanks for reading! You've gone this far - why not reveiw? 


	10. Copacabana

Another chapter. JOY!

Disclaimer: No, I dont own Supernatural - thanks for asking!

* * *

Dean took a sip of his coffee. The caffeine hadn't kicked in yet, but that coffee taste always gave him a lift. He watched the people on the sidewalk stroll past and tried to think of where to look for a lead on the case. It was during this reflection that Dean noticed a blonde woman walking towards him - she looked annoyingly familiar. She had a dazed smile on her face and the large sunglasses she was wearing did nothing to disguise how tired she was. She noticed Dean through the Impala window and furrowed her eyebrows. Dean smiled. 

"Hi, uh…." She said, walking up to him. "Dean?" She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the Impala.

"Yeah," Dean said, only a little shocked she knew his name. Then it hit him – about three months ago they had shared a night of passion, music, and flavoured cheap vodka. He marvelled at the likelihood of meeting a woman again like this – randomly, three states over. Although, he supposed, it had to happen sometime: they kind of were starting to pile up. "How are you… Danielle?"

"Well I'm good. A little beat right now. Big night out."

"Ah." Dean had resorted to saying very little. The way he saw it, the more he said the more _she _said, and the more chance there was of her bringing up the fact that he'd promised he'd call but then tossed her like a used Kleenex.

* * *

"… and the waiter was just so confused he forgot all _about _the specials!" Ally said, laughing. 

Sam laughed too. Laughter was infectious - especially when he knew the other person wasn't just laughing to make him feel better. Sam hated that. It made him feel like a child.

But he felt good at that moment, listening to Ally recount an incident at a restaurant two nights before. Her friends were all suffering from crippling hangovers and had decided to sleep in their motel till nine-thirty that night, so she had her lunch with Sam – purely as a last resort, she constantly reminded him. Lunch had turned into coffee, which had become less and less focused on coffee and more on the company.

Ally looked behind Sam and narrowed her eyes.

"Hey, it looks like Danni's up." Sam turned to see Ally's friend Danni talking to someone inside a black car. Dean's car. "And she's hounding some poor defenceless guy."

Danni moved a little and Sam saw Dean's face – looking strained and uncomfortable, but nevertheless polite – through the Impala window. "Yeah," he said, turning back to Ally. "That's my brother."

"Really?" Ally said, slowly. "Then you wont mind if I go to say hello."

* * *

"So, what are you doing here? I thought you moved underground or something," she said, staring into his eyes. Dean chuckled politely. 

"I'm here on a vacation. With my brother."

Danni smiled. She opened her mouth to say something – perhaps to berate Dean about his lack of social courtesy – but was interrupted when Dean waved frantically at Sam, who was leaving the coffee shop at that moment.

"Sam!" Dean said, amazingly at the same time as Danni. Ally followed Sam outside. "Really, it's _so _great to see you."

"You two know each other?" Danni interjected.

"We're brothers," they said in unison. Danni nodded.

"That's great," she said without much enthusiasm. There was a silence.

"Uh, Dean, this is Ally. Ally, Dean," Sam said.

"Ah, nice to meet you," Dean said with a charming smile. "Sam's told me so much about you. Don't worry, all good things." Ally looked at him questioningly. Sam glared. "I mean, nothing really. No good things at all. That isn't to say he wouldn't have _said _good things. I didn't hear _any _things, really. But if I did, I'm sure they'd be… good."

"Well, that's nice." Ally said, with a smile.

"Sam," Dean hissed under his breath when Ally and Danni started their own conversation. "Don't leave me alone with her."

"Who? Ally?"

"No. Danielle." Danni looked at Dean at the mention of her name. Dean smiled innocently. "I think she's pissed at me," he continued in a whisper.

"Why would Danni be pissed at you?" Sam said, trying not to move his lips too much.

"Well, because… I said I'd call her. And then I sort of… didn't."

"I don't think she'd be pissed at you. She's getting married soon. She's probably over it."

"Somehow I don't think so."

"Well, gosh Dean. You're not _that _hard to get over," Sam said with a chuckle.

"You'd be surprised. And Sam?"

"Mmm?"

"Ally's totally into you." Sam scoffed audibly and rolled his eyes. "No really, look at the way she's _looking _at you. Well, not now, obviously."

"Nah, we're just… friends."

"Yeah, friends who want to sleep together."

Sam turned towards Dean – undoubtedly to give some witty retort – and saw the coffee shop waiter standing next to him with arms folded.

"Sir?"

"Oh, shit, sorry," Sam said to the waiter, and began to follow him back into the coffee shop. "I forgot to pay," he said to Dean's questioning expression.

"Wait!" Ally called, rushing into the shop. "I'm paying half!"

Dean looked at Danni, whom he was now alone with.

"So, great weather we're having."

* * *

After the bill had been taken care of, Sam and Ally walked out of the coffee shop. They both raised their eyebrows as they took in the scene before them. Danni was leaning forward, poking her index finger at Dean and she'd just finished yelling so loudly Sam was surprised they couldn't hear her from the shop. Dean stood glued to the spot, eyes wide, completely silent. Danni let out a huff and turned away from Dean. Then she turned back. 

"Oh, and for _your _information, Dean," she said, spitting out his name as though it produced an unpleasant taste in her mouth. "I was _faking _it." She turned and waltzed into the coffee shop.

"Uh, I'd better go in there…" Ally said, following her. The brothers stood silent.

"That went well," Dean said eventually. "She didn't try to hit me. And that last thing, I mean, that's just a myth isn't it? Women don't actually _do _that." Sam shrugged. "Whatever. I'm going to get a BLT." Dean strode away down the sidewalk in search of a sandwich bar.

Sam stood in the middle of the sidewalk for a second, feeling slightly deserted. He walked back into the coffee shop and found Ally sitting at a booth with Danni, who seemed to find drinking a double espresso a religious experience.

"Hey," Ally said quietly. "Sorry about that back there."

"Why?" Sam said. "You shouldn't have to apologise."

"Well I feel like I do. I _really _shouldn't have let her out of the motel for another four hours. Tell Dean she didn't mean it at all."

"Oh, I think she meant _some _of it."

"Well, not all of it," Ally said, conceding. "Especially not when she used the word 'manslut'."

"She called him a manslut?"

* * *

Dean woke up to a shuffle outside in the hall. He was quite annoyed about this, having had a very full day. After consuming a sub-standard BLT he'd checked out Scott Kruger's house again when he supposed he wouldn't be home – only to be met by a rather brawny housekeeper who chased him with a soup ladle. He watched a disappointing movie on pay-per-view (Dean was adamant that cowboys weren't the epitome of manliness that they used to be) and then spent a couple hours going over his research, insistent that he'd missed something. He looked through the printouts on the crime scenes, Kirk's mail and a few things he'd found on Jaime Wells. It was when his body felt heavy and his eyes hurt that he noticed something. Something he was surprised he'd missed. It was – well it was the _thing, _Dean realised. Unfortunately it was too late to do anything about it, and Dean was too tired. He'd finally gotten to sleep at 1:30 in the morning. 

It was 3:45 now, Dean noted, and he certainly did not appreciate being awakened. After listening to the scuffling for a second, Dean heard a chuckle he recognised. Sam's chuckle. Sam's _drunken _chuckle.

Dean got out of bed, walked into Sam's room and let him in. Sam hadn't really got the knack of the card-swipe key and had been trying to force the door open. When he looked up, his mouth stretched into a big grin.

"Hey Deeean," he said. "You look sleepy."

"You've been drinking, Sam," Dean said, more to himself than Sam.

"Yeah. I was with Ally."

Dean smiled and made a mental note to tease Sam about that later.

"You need a shower," Dean said, directing Sam to the bathroom.

"_Her name was Lola…_"

"What?" Sam's face was loose and happy, and his eyes looked glazed.

"_She was a showgirl. With yellow feathers in her hair…_"

"Sam?"

"Mmmm? _...her dress cut down to there…_"

"You're singing."

"I _am _aren't I? _She would merengue, and do the cha-cha…_"

"You're singing Barry Manilow. Sam... are you _sure _you like girls?" Dean pushed Sam into the bathroom.

"'Course, Dean," he said, leaning against the doorframe. He started to sing again, but this time he moved his hands side-to-side. "_At the copa… Copacabana…_"

"OK, I draw the line at arm movements. Sam, have a shower. You think you can do that?" Sam nodded. "Okay. Then get to sleep. You need a good night's sleep."

Dean shut the door and smiled to himself. He could hear Sam through the door. "_Music and passion were always in fashion…_"

Soon Dean heard the water being turned on and climbed back into his bed. Sam _would _need a good night's sleep, Dean mused, because tomorrow he needed Sam's help.

* * *

HA! There we are! The chapter is OVER:-D Please reveiw! 


	11. Used

NEW CHAPTER! Who's more excited than me? Answer: No-one!

And, not to be spoilery to any Aus or UK guys reading this who don't get all greedy and watch America's eps over the internet - 0.0 at the season finale. Just 0.0. I am WITHOUT SPEECH (perhaps a good thing for all the people that have met me...).

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it I'm afraid. :-( I dont even claim to own a single original idea. And that's what makes me so refreshingly unoriginal!

* * *

Sam downed his latte with a surprising amount of gusto. His hair was mussed and his face hadn't quite fallen back to normal after waking up. Though his eyes had lit up briefly when Dean had brought him coffee and informed him their room service breakfast would be there any minute, he was soon back to scrunching up his forehead and looking sullen.

Dean noted with complacency that the morning-after dark circles that Sam was sporting didn't make him look mysterious and more than a little bit badass, as they did Dean. They just made him look like a computer geek who'd spent the night playing Dungeons and Dragons.

Sam sat back on his bed and groaned. "Urgh," he said.

"Welcome to a hangover, Sammy," Dean said, sipping his coffee.

"Urgh, ilin one ower begdore."

"Dude, now you're not making _any _sense."

Sam sighed. "I _said_," he began, speaking slowly. "I've been hungover before."

Dean simply stared.

"I went to _college_."

"But you were a geek Sam. But there's no shame in admitting it. Geeks get all the hot chicks when they're, you know, eighty and about to kick the bucket."

"So I should stay optimistic?" Sam half chuckled, half groaned.

"Exactly." Sam's face turned pale. "Sam?"

Sam leapt off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. Within seconds, Dean heard the mildly disturbing sound of Sam vomiting in the sink. Sam emerged moments later, wiping his face with a moistened hand towel.

"You have no idea how much better I feel now," he said simply.

"Dude, unfortunately I do. You don't have that dizzy, liquid feeling in your stomach anymore?"

"No. One hell of a headache though."

"Feels like someone's constantly hitting you over the head with a partly frozen turkey?"

"I would have said rolled-up newspaper, but yeah." There was a knock at the door. "Oooh, you got food."

Sam rushed to the door and beamed at the lady standing in the hall with a silver trolley laden with breakfast goods. Sam tipped the lady and wheeled the trolley in.

"Oh, God," he exclaimed seconds later as he bit into a warm ham and cheese croissant. Dean picked up a raspberry donut – cinnamon coated with a nice bread smell – and took a big luxurious bite.

"Good?" Dean murmured through a mouthful of jammy bread.

"Mmm," Sam said, moving onto a piece of toast. "I feel like I haven't eaten in days."

"That's because you just threw up everything you ate in the lat thirty hours. And everything you drank."

"But I wasn't _very _drunk, was I?"

Dean laughed. "Well, God knows how, but you made it up to the hotel by yourself. That means you weren't _quite _catatonic."

Sam shook his head and smiled. "But I was drunk enough that I can barely remember anything I… oh, shit, Ally!" Sam's furrowed his eyebrows and Dean chuckled. "What's Ally going to think?"

"That you're a guy."

"But shouldn't I call her or something? Isn't that just what you _do _in this situation? Well, it's not what _you _do, but-"

"Sam, it's ten in the morning on a Saturday. If she was as half as drunk as you she wont even be awake."

"Then why am _I _awake?" Sam asked absent-mindedly as he searched for his cell.

"We have a full morning ahead, Sam."

"Aw, crap. I don't have her number. Wait, did you say it's Saturday? She _leaves _today!"

"Leaves as in going back home?"

"Yeah. And I can't even call her."

"Wait," Dean said, a grin creeping at the corners of his mouth. "She sleeps with you, doesn't give you her number and leaves the state the next morning?"

"Yes," Sam said, staring at his phone as though expecting the number to just appear. Dean laughed. "What?"

"You just got _used,_ Sammy-boy."

"Wait, what?"

"Used. And not like in ninth grade where you'd get used for your ability to do eleventh-grade math. I mean used for _sex_." Sam glared a little.

"Shut up."

"_Sex, _Sam. You were used for sex," Dean said slowly, his eyes bright and his mouth curved into a smirk.

"Stop saying that!"

"What, sex? _Sex!_"

"What, are you twelve?"

"You're never going to hear from that chick again, Sam. You'll just be another name in her little red diary, another notch in her bedpost."

"No-one actually puts _notches _in their bedposts. I am going to have a shower," Sam said.

"The stain of being used doesn't wash off, Sam," Dean said seriously.

"Going," Sam said, walking to the cupboard and retrieving a towel.

"Alright, I'll stop. But hurry up, we have stuff to do."

"What kind of stuff?"

"I'll tell you after."

"Ok," Sam said, pulling his shampoo out of his bag. "Mysterious."

"Such is the nature of our profession, Sam." Sam walked towards the bathroom door but stood frozen as Dean began to murmur.

"_At the Copa… Copacobana…"_

Sam's eyes widened.

"What?" Dean said. "I thought you liked Barry Manilow."

* * *

Sam emerged from the bathroom, looking decidedly less tired. Dean was seated at a small table, searching through a pile of papers. Sam sat down next to him. 

"Here," Dean said, handing Sam a plastic bag.

"Oooh, aspirin," Sam said, unwrapping the contents. "But Dr. Pepper? Dean I hate Dr. Pepper."

"So do I, Sam. But for a hangover it's the best thing."

Sam popped two aspirin and followed it with a large swig of Dr. Pepper.

"You have to drink the whole can." Sam stared at the can, and finished it in one terrible gulp.

"Ok, Dean. Lay it on me."

"Ha, that's what she said."

Sam looked down at the papers. "What, Dean is this a job?" He was still speaking slow from the hangover, but he was beginning to sound less and less pained.

"It is."

"You found a job here," Sam said, half question, half statement.

"Partially true. I found the job before I found _here. _So while you were prancin' around, Miss California Sunshine, I've been working a case."

"Dude, you came to California just to work a job?"

"I did."

"Dean, that's screwed. This was our vacation," Sam said softly. Dean's jaw clenched a little.

"No Sam it was _your _vacation. I don't _want _a vacation. I was just fine working a job."

"But you had that chance to _relax_, Dean-"

"I know! I know I'd rather hunt than 'holiday' and be a freaking tourist," Dean said. He took a deep breath. "Any normal person would jump at the chance to relax like that, especially after they've been through what we have. But I'm not normal. I know it's fucked, but that's just how I relax."

"Sorry, that's… fine." There was a pause and Dean looked at Sam. "What?"

"Nothing. Just, you seem happy." Sam smiled.

"Well, it's just good to know you were on a job."

"It is?"

"Yeah. Because you were sorta avoiding me. And I'm glad that you weren't doing it because… well because you just don't want to spend any time with me."

"Dude, you know I hate chick-flick moments."

"But it's nice to know you still want to hang out with me sometimes, even after I piss you off so much. Because I know you're always there for-"

"Ok, Sam, seriously. Add Reese Witherspoon and a catchy soundtrack and you've got yourself a hit."

Sam laughed and looked down at the papers. "So, whaddya got here?"

"Two murders in the area – all pretty standard except for some reason the bodies are missing their hearts."

"What, like cut out?"

"Nope, just gone."

"Well, that's definitely supernatural," Sam said, raising his eyebrows.

"'S what I thought. But that doesn't narrow it down. All sorts of things are capable of this kind of mutilation. Demons, spirits, practically everything with mind powers."

Sam looked uncomfortable.

"Well, obviously not _everything_."

"So what have you found out?"

Dean filled Sam in on the facts of the case. Jaime's and Kirk's similar residences, their backgrounds, the mysterious apparition in the elevator and the papers he'd recently acquired.

"So basically, you're at a dead end," Sam said with a sigh.

"Actually, no. And that's why I need your help." Dean picked up a piece of paper. "See?"

"It's a statement of Kirk Miller's pay."

"Yeah, and look there, in the margin. Kirk is payed by the job, and it says here that he did some work for client #826, moving larger items like billiard tables and pianos… at Scott Kruger's address."

Sam stared at the paper while Dean gave a self-satisfied grin. "When was Jaime killed?" Sam asked, looking up at Dean.

"The next morning. Kirk was killed less than 30 hours after that."

"And why do you need me?"

"Last time I went to the Krugers I was chased out by the maid. There's not a doubt in my mind that if Scott himself had seen me I'd have been arrested," Dean said with a grimance.

"So, real friendly guy then."

"I need you to talk to him, Sam. And maybe sweep the place. It won't even take you half a day. Then you can go back to… holidaying."

"That's OK," Sam said lightly. "I don't mind helping."

"You don't?"

Sam ignored Dean. "So you think it's Scott's house? And it's linked to the woman you saw?"

"Yeah, but get this – this morning while you were _asleep_ I went to the library and researched more on the house. Couldn't find a female owner who fit the description for the last five decades. But I do a search on this guy – Gavin Burke – who owned it from seventy six to eighty four. And I found this." Dean pulled up a picture of a woman, smiling, receiving an award for her prized roses. "His daughter. It's her, Sam – and she died in eighty three. Heart attack."

* * *

Yup, kinda long. But I really do hope you enjoyed it. Now take the time to review and tell me about all the literary atrocities I just committed! Go on:-) 


	12. Ducky

I updated! Who loves me? (Please dont answer that...)

Disclaimer: I swear, I've never owned it before in my life!!!

* * *

"So all I have to do is get a look around the house?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, and maybe ask Scott a few questions. Though I got the feeling he wasn't very open to discussion."

"And then you'll…"

"Wait till Scott leaves and torch the place. Because Laura Burke was _conveniently _cremated," Dean said with sarcasm.

"_Dean. _You can't _torch _the place - a beautiful house like this. Just do a hoodoo ritual or something."

"Oh, you make that sound so _easy _Sam. Why not ask me to climb Everest or give birth while you're at it?"

"Dude, why do you hate hoodoo?"

"It's just not… very macho."

Sam shook his head.

There were cars parked way up the street and people milling around the Kruger house. Dean looked at Sam in the passenger seat.

"Does this guy _ever _go to work?"

"It's Saturday." Sam looked out at the people, mostly sombre in respectful black. "Dean I think this is a wake."

Dean nodded. "Well, that's perfect," he said.

* * *

Gertrude smiled at Dean across the table.

"So you just need general information about the street?" she asked, stirring sugar into her tea. Dean nodded at the elderly woman. She had wiry silver hair and a soft-looking wrinkled face. Her smiling eyes had grown a bit dull over the years and her delicate frame moved slowly and awkwardly.

"Yes, just a little bit of local history for potential buyers. People like to know the background of a place before they make a decision." Dean picked up his coffee and noticed a greasy-looking stain on his maroon tie. Probably from those awful nachos he bought from that guy who'd charged him seventy cents for extra cheese. He closed his jacket a little to cover it. "So," he continued. "I understand you've been living here longer than anyone else?"

"Oh yes," Gertrude answered, a hazy look on her face. She had a tired, soft voice that didn't seem to suit her. "I moved in with my husband when we got married. Fifty-seven years ago in November. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. It's a lovely street. Nice people, though they aren't too friendly all of the time. Never know what's going on behind closed doors. People like to keep to themselves in this neighbourhood."

"Has it always been that way?"

"Mmm? Oh, mostly, yes. Though some lovely families have lived here over the years. Would you like another cup?" Gertrude nodded to Dean's empty mug.

"Oh, no thanks," he said, as the woman stepped up slowly to pour more coffee. She presented Dean with a fresh coffee.

"Sorry, Ducky, was it two?"

Dean knitted his eyebrows and nodded.

"Oh, sorry. It's just you remind me so much of my husband."

"Ducky?"

"His name was Ben. Died two years ago. Ducky was what I called him. You look a little like him. Same… lips."

Dean sipped his coffee, trying not to look so thoroughly disturbed.

"What about the Kruger house?" Dean asked. "I understand it'll soon be on the market, and we need a little more history about the place besides the murder."

"But murder houses are such a novelty," she said, with unusual emphasis.

Dean smiled.

"Not to most buyers."

"Hmmm, I see. Well the girl… Jane, was it?"

"Jaime, I believe."

"Ah, yes. She was sweet. Very unfortunate what happened. And in such a _safe _neighbourhood."

"Do you know anything about the past residents?" Dean asked smoothly.

"Past residents? Well, that house has been empty for years."

"I understand there used to be a woman by the name of Laura Burke who lived there?"

"Ah, well that was quite a while ago. She lived in that house for, I don't know… at least a few years."

"Do you remember much about her?"

"Yes, sometimes she'd come over for tea. She was a kind woman, with the most beautiful rose garden you'd ever seen - the plants are still there, I'm sure of it. Never had any children and I believe she died in that house. I felt so _sorry _for her when her husband left her," Gertrude said, staring at the lace tablecloth.

"He left her?"

"Yes. For another woman almost half her age. But that's always the way isn't it? She never really came over after that. She loved Daniel dearly and it just broke her heart."

"Do you know where he lives now?"

"He died. About six months after he left Laura he was murdered. Found in pieces all over a Chicago highway."

"Well this street sure sees its fair share of tragedy," Dean said softly. Gertrude looked up.

"Well, terrible things do happen in this life. Even to the very rich."

"And Laura never got over his death?"

"She was a recluse. The police had tried to tie her to the murder but they couldn't make it stick. And thanks to _Daddy's_ money that never made the papers."

"You're quite cynical, you know that?"

"I've seen so much in my lifetime. And after a while everything blends together and you just… let it happen. It's actually been my little game for the past few years – everything around here just seems so absurd."

"Well, thank you Mrs Knolls. I'm afraid I have to cut our discussion short."

"Oh really?" Gertrude asked in a suspicious tone. "But you haven't asked me about most of the street yet."

Dean gave her a look. She smiled.

"I hope I was helpful, Ducky."

* * *

Sam straightened his tie as Dean pulled away from the house. He smiled back at an old lady and sombrely walked towards the door, trying to push down that horrible feeling in his stomach – that he was an impostor at a wake.

Sam noticed Scott at once. Sitting in the corner of the room, clutching a glass of water. He had a suit roughly thrown on over a stained t-shirt and he looked into the centre of the room, observing all the people milling about in muffled tones. Sam decided to jump right in.

"Scott," he said, sliding down into the seat next to him. "I'm Sam Reynolds." Sam extended his hand out. Scott brushed it briefly with his own hand.

"Afternoon, Sam. Please, try an hors d'oeuvre."

"No thanks."

Scott sighed.

"So how did you know Jaime?" he asked, turning towards Sam. "If at all? Because half the people here haven't even _met _my fiancé. My mother throws a party and everyone comes. Never mind it's a _wake_ – it'll be like a new theme. Like they time they dressed in 20's clothes."

"I knew your fiancé," Sam lied. "She used to live in my building."

"Do you attend the wakes of all your past neighbours?" Scott asked bitterly.

"No, but Jaime was a really lovely girl."

Scott turned towards him. "What, you go out?"

"No," Sam said, taken aback.

"But you wanted to, right?"

"No," Sam said again, as Scott's expression grew more and more hard. "No, I never even… because I'm gay."

"Oh," Scott said. "I guess that's cool." He narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Dude, you have a splodge on your shirt."

Sam looked down at the splodge. He cursed Dean's nachos and shifted his tie to cover it.

"So how're you holding up?" Sam asked, patting Scott's shoulder. Scott's eyes grew wide, and Sam quickly removed his hand.

"I'm fine," Scott said. "Fuckin' dandy."

"I'm a grief counsellor," Sam lied. "Sometimes it helps to talk."

"Talk?" Scott said, softly. "Fine I'll talk. I'll talk about how all I want to do is be alone, but these people wont leave. I'll tell you all I can think about is how Jaime begged me to take the week off of work so we could pack, and she wouldn't be alone in the house. And I'll tell you about how I wish I could dream about her or picture but I can't because it hurts too much."

Sam nodded slowly. "Grief is a complicated process. You wont feel this way forever-"

"How do you know? How do you know that I'll be able to think about her again? That she'll be in my dreams? That every day I wont feel responsible for something I couldn't control?"

Sam swallowed. "Well, I don't. But you can try to work through this, and maybe you'll see her again in your dreams."

Scott sighed inaudibly. "You know, I want to leave this house. Just so it'll stop reminding me of her. But I just keep feeling like… well that I'm _supposed _to be here, you know?"

"Is that because, as much as you want to leave the pain behind, you can't leave behind this house, a symbol of what you had together?" Sam asked, almost choking on his own words.

"No," Scott said. "It'd because – this is going to sound crazy – but I have dreams. Not about Jaime but about a woman I've never met before. And she says I'm meant to be here."

* * *

AHH! Over! Now GO my minions! Reveiw me! (nicely)


	13. Bacon

Yeah, its been a while... enjoy this installment! Unlucky chapter 13... hopefully not THAT unlucky ;-)

Disclaimer: I dis-claim this. All of it.

* * *

Dean looked at her through the hazy air thick with the scent of her expensive perfume. She was all eyes, smooth blonde hair and that black flirty skirt. She took a sip of her whatever-on-the-rocks, and Dean stifled a sigh as the amber liquid stayed on her lips, making them shine in the soft light.

"So, Dean Winchester, how are you enjoying California?" she asked slowly, twirling her blonde hair around her finger. She didn't have to speak loudly – her words were captivating, even over the jazz music and the gentle hum of conversation around them.

Dean replied with something – it wasn't important. Because suddenly she leaned in so subtly toward him, pausing as her hair brushed the hand he was using to hold his drink. And she kissed him, deep and warm and acidic with the taste of that potent scotch…

"Dean?"

Dean's mouth was still curved into a silly grin.

"Dean!" Sam repeated, annoyed. Dean opened his eyes and let out a sigh of disapproval. "Why are you sleeping _now_?"

"Because I was up half the night with friggin' Copacobana playing in my head."

"Oh. Well you were just humming jazz."

"Oh." Dean glanced at his watch. "Dammit Sam, why'd you take so long? How long does it take to get an EMF reading?"

"I also talked to Scott. And they had these little savouries wrapped in bacon. And you know how I feel about things wrapped in bacon," Sam said lightly, opening the door and getting into the Impala's passenger seat.

Dean stared wordlessly at Sam, and for a moment Sam started back.

"What?"

"You know what."

Sam sighed and handed Dean a cloth napkin wrapped around a small number of bacon savouries. Dean crammed them into his mouth in quick succession, barely stopping to chew.

"Oh man," he said, little crumbs of bacon flying out of his mouth and landing on his jeans. "They used gruyere in this one."

Sam chuckled. "EMF reading came up pretty positive. Nothing too high, but there's definitely something supernatural stalking that house."

"And you spoke to Scott?"

"I did. And he was everything you said he was," Sam said with fake enthusiasm.

"Haha. But really," Dean said, again sounding annoyed. "That takes two hours?"

"Well I couldn't just _leave _after ten minutes It was a _wake._"

Dean started up the car and pulled away from the curb.

"But it's still going now, isn't it? You still left."

"Well, I had to leave."

"Because…?"

"Because people were starting to look at me funny. And this guy named Neil kept asking for my number," Sam said quickly. Dean looked over for him at a brief second.

"It's the tie, Sam. Makes you look gay."

"Dude, this is _your _tie."

"Well, yeah. But it makes _you _look gay. On me it just looks classy. What'd Scott have to say?"

"He's feeling some guilt over Jaime's death. I'm not sure if he knows about Kirk. And he said a woman's visiting him in his dreams."

"And it sounded like Laura?"

"Sure did."

Dean blew out a puff of air. "Good. I spoke to the old lady across the street."

"Anything interesting?"

"Yeah," Dean said, negotiating some heavy traffic. "Laura was pissed at her husband when he swapped her for a newer model. And then a few months later he's dead, hacked up, heart cut out."

"Hell hath no fury."

"Exactly. So she lives in that house a little while longer, tending to her prize-winning roses, living off her savings. Bit of a recluse. And then she dies of a heart attack."

"And they never proved if she did it?" Sam asked, glancing over at Dean, his forehead developing little lines of intense thought.

"Yeah. But they never proved she _didn't _do it."

"And now her spirits living in that house, taking out her anger on random people."

"Well, I don't know about that. I had a look through some articles we printed while _you _were eating savouries," Dean said, pulling a paper out of the middle compartment and handing it to Sam. "And I noticed something weird. Thought there was a picture of Scott on one of the pages - but it's not him. Its Laura's murdered husband, Daniel, whom Scott bears a striking resemblance to."

"Freaky."

"Yeah. So My best guess is Laura's killing whoever she thinks is standing between her and Scott... his fiancé-"

"And the guy picking up their belongings before they move house."

"You got it."

"So," Sam said with a tiny sigh. "What's the plan now?"

"We wait outside Scott's place till he leaves, break in, kill the sucker and fade away into the night."

"He's leaving after the wake. Staying at his parent's house tonight."

"He told you that?"

"I convinced him it'd be better for the grieving process if he stayed away from the house for a couple days."

"Nice. Then I'll have this thing done by tonight."

* * *

Dean drove to Scott's house, once again taking time to enjoy the view. He had his giant box of hoodoo charms sitting next to him in the passenger seat. The volume on the cassette player was turned up to full - the only way to enjoy that _Freebird _solo, Dean reasoned. Sam was back at the motel room - sleeping off the last remnants of his hangover, he told Dean - though Dean suspected he was just taking advantage of the pay-per-view. 

Dean pushed _that _image out of his mind as he pulled up to Scott's house and twisted down the volume control to barely audible. Dark, deserted and quiet, the house had a creepy vibe to it at this time in the early evening.

Dean stepped out of the Impala and made his way to the front door, ready to bolt if he saw Scott. He pounded on the door a few times, just to make sure the house really _was _empty. He pulled a small tool out of his pocket and used it to render the security system useless.

The inside looked different to when he'd last seen it. There was more furniture this time, and the floor was littered with post-party mess. Dean walked around the house to locate the different places he'd have to put charms, balancing the box of hoodoo under his arm. Dean huffed a little in frustration and put down the box. It _really _would have been easier to burn the place down, he considered.

Dean paused as he walked past a bedroom and took a few steps back. He saw a foot, thankfully attached to a leg, poking out from behind the bed. Dean rushed over and found Scott laying still on the floor.

"Shit," Dean said, suddenly aware of the suspicious nature of the situation. He decided not to touch anything too much - especially now that his fingerprints were on file. He leaned in near Scott's face and listened. Scott was breathing, but he didn't stir when Dean shook him.

"He's not dead," said a voice. Dean turned around. What he could only assume was the ghost of Laura Burke was sitting on - or, rather, hovering above - the bed. "I really think you should leave."

* * *

Sam sat at the hotel coffee shop and looked around. As soon as Dean's job was done, he thought, his holiday probably would too. And he'd miss the relaxation and the California air. Though he supposed he wouldn't miss the oily men in bike shorts roller-skating down the sidewalk. 

Sam drank the rest of his coffee and started the walk back up to the motel room.

"Excuse me?" said a man dressed in the hotel uniform, tapping him on the shoulder. "Are you Samuel staying in Room 47?"

"Yes."

"A lady left this message for you earlier today," the man said, handing Sam a note. Sam read it as soon as the man left and smiled to himself. It was from Ally, and it included an apology for leaving without a goodbye, and a phone-number.

Sam resisted the urge to punch the air in celebration.

Back up at the room, Sam read the note again. Then he read it again and one more time, before he put it inside a drawer and told himself to stop thinking about it.

He busied himself among a pile of papers, trying not to think about the drawer, much less the note inside it. Most of the papers were articles Dean had printed out at the library, and they served their purpose of distracting Sam for the time being.

Sam furrowed his eyebrows and re-read the last sentence on a printout. It was in an article about a fire that had occurred on Scott Kruger's street years ago, before he'd even moved in. Sam stared at the paper wordlessly as the information lodged itself in his brain.

"Oh, shit," he said to no-one. "_Dean!_"

* * *

Thank you for reading! And thank you even MORE for reviewing! (Which I know you're going to do... gives the puppy dog eyes please?)

Again, feedback is appreciated. Feel free to tell me about spelling errors, major plotholes or anything else you find annoying.


	14. Shower

Another chapter. YEAH.

As you can probably tell, the story's almost over. And I probably wont start another one.

A warning: I've realised I'm not to great at writing serious stuff that's interesting. So this chapter is _kind _of serious, but I've tried to keep it light. Hope it turned out okay and not awkward.

Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. Don't own any characters or anything really. It's FLAGRANT PLAGIARISM. Though not really, I've admitted it...

* * *

"I think you should leave." 

Dean's jaw was hard. "Well I'm not leaving. I can't leave him here with you, Laura."

Laura's expression was startled for a moment. "You know my name?" she said in barely a whisper. Dean nodded and Laura grimaced.

"I'm Dean," Dean said simply. Laura glared at him, stood, and paced towards the bathroom door.

"Why are you here? This is private property. And I've _given _you warning."

Laura had a nervous look about her, and something in her eyes told Dean that her bravado was all for show. Her mouth was twisted into an un-natural smile that didn't belong there. Her eyes weren't smiling; instead they were blurry and dull.

"I know that you were going to kill Scott," Dean said, walking up behind her. "And I'm here to stop you."

"Who said I was going to kill him?"

"Just a feeling." Dean glanced through the doorway at the box of hoodoo, trying to think of a way to grab the pack of rock salt inconspicuously. Until then he'd have to stall Laura, or try to reason with her. Not for the first time, Dean wished Sam was with him. Sam was always better at communicating with the dead and deranged.

Laura narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. "Why, do I look like a murderer?"

There was a pause. "Should you?" Dean asked.

"I killed my husband," she said blandly. "But that wasn't _murder_, it was… I wasn't thinking right. And he deserved it, it did him some good."

"I'm sure it did. But killing Scott won't do anything."

Laura looked down at Scott's face. "I don't want to kill him," she said quietly, more to herself than Dean. "But I don't want him to leave either."

"Laura," Dean said, his practiced voice softening. "I think you'll just have to learn-"

"No," she said. Her head swung towards him, and in a second Dean was being dragged along the floor, into the bathroom, into the… shower, of all places. The glass shower door slammed shut.

"You'll stay _here _until I figure out what to do." There was a shrill noise and Laura looked down at her feet. "Hmm, looks like you dropped your cell."

Dean slammed his hands against the glass door.

"Let me _out_!" he yelled pointlessly. The cell stopped ringing.

"I killed my husband in a shower, you know," Laura said airily. "Made a hell of a mess, but I suppose I did go a little nuts. Good choice to do it on tiles – and I've never even been much of a forward planner." She turned towards the bedroom and looked at Scott.

"He doesn't deserve this, you know. He did _nothing. _He's not your scumbag husband."

Laura froze on the spot. Suddenly Dean felt something sharp at the back of his neck, and the pain travelled down his spine. He hunched into a ball, eyes closed and let out a yell. Once he opened his eyes and looked at Laura.

"Oh, haha," he said, dripping with ice-cold water. Laura smirked.

"_Sorry_," she said. "But you have to admit that _was _a little funny." Dean's cell chirped from the floor. "Well, you're popular."

* * *

Sam sucked in a breath and pulled out his cell phone. He dialled Dean on speed-dial (he might have noticed this was the first time he'd_ ever_ used speed-dial if he hadn't been in such a state of panic) and listened to the rings. They seemed slower than usual, and almost mockingly chirpy. Eventually the repetitive sound ended, and Sam heard the familiar gravely voice on Deans answering service. 

Sam rang again, but he was just taken to the same recorded message.

"Dammit!" Sam snapped shut his cell and rushed towards the door. If he couldn't call Dean he'd go to him, warn him, _save _him, anything.

* * *

Dean shivered. The water from the shower had soaked into his clothes and had left him freezing in the darkened bathroom. Laura was sitting on the bed, watching Scott and had been doing so silently for almost fifteen minutes. Dean tried again to push the door open, but Laura had it forced closed. 

"He's peaceful like this," Laura said from the bedroom. "Sleeping."

"He's not sleeping, he's unconscious," Dean reminded her.

"I had to knock him out," she said, walking towards the bathroom. "He was going to leave. And I don't think I could bare that… not again."

"How long have you been living here?" Dean asked. Laura glared. "I mean, how long have you been here? Ever since you…?"

"Yeah. Since eighty three… that's more than twenty years. I've seen this house through a lot."

Dean nodded slowly. The conversation had taken an awkward turn and it felt stiff, like the forced chitchat between co-workers in an elevator.

"When you talk to him he thinks he's dreaming. Does he even know your name? Why you're here?"

"Well, no. But that's not important," Laura said, leaning against the doorframe. "He loves me. I know he does."

"He loves Jaime. Or at least he _did,_ before you killed her."

Laura's expression darkened. "He did _not _love her."

"They were going to get married," Dean said, almost enjoying the way Laura's expression changed. "They were going to move away and start a life together."

"And that's why she had to die. She was stopping us from being together."

"And Kirk?"

"Well I suppose that wasn't _really _necessary. But he was helping him move. Helping him _leave_."

Dean heard a noise coming from the bedroom. Scott had come round.

* * *

Sam found a cab almost the instant he left the hotel. After a few seconds of panic after he'd forgotten the address, Sam retrieved a printout from his jacket pocket and was on his way to Scott Kruger's house. 

When the cab pulled up Sam threw a wad of cash at the driver and ran up to the house. The curtains were closed, the lights were off.

"Dean!" he called, pounding on the front door. There was no answer. He ran around to the back and tried to find an open window or an unlocked door, then cursed himself when he realised he hadn't brought anything to pick the lock with.

Sam stood frozen when he heard faint noises inside the house. Definitely voices, and something that sounded suspiciously like _Dean's _voice. Sam whipped out his cell and tried calling Dean again.

* * *

"Scott!" Laura breathed, her face softening as she knelt next to Scott. From the shower, Dean could only see Scott's foot. Scott groaned. "It's okay." 

Scott let out a yelp of surprise and stood up, and Dean couldn't help sniggering to himself a little.

"Wha…" Scott said, opening and closing his mouth a few times.

"It's okay…" Laura repeated, smiling. Scott's tear-stained eyes narrowed and he took a step back from Laura.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Scott shrieked. "Get out of my _house_!"

Laura looked genuinely hurt. "But you _know_ me… I-"

"I don't _know _you. What… I… am I imagining this?" Scott said, more to himself. He walked past the bathroom and saw Dean trapped in the shower.

"Hey," Dean said simply, still shivering a little. Scott stared wide-eyed at Dean and turned away.

"Oh _God_," he muttered to himself. "I'm going insane."

"Probably."

"Scott, I'm really here," Laura said.

Dean leant against the glass door and was surprised when it swung open. Laura was distracted enough to forget to keep Dean trapped.

He crept out of the bathroom, picked up his cell phone, and slipped out the bedroom door as Laura and Scott bickered over Laura's presence in the room. He picked up the box of hoodoo charms and walked the house, leaving tiny puddles of water on the floorboards. He pulled out a bundle made of angelica root and some other ingredients and set himself on the task of finding the right walls. With any luck, placing the bundles would purify the house and free Laura's spirit.

_So would burning down the place_, part of Dean's mind interjected, _and _that_ would be much easier. And fun._

Dean's compass showed him to the northernmost wall, and he punched a tiny little hole – oops, not so tiny, Dean thought with a frown – into the plaster and tucked a bundle inside. He did the same with the eastern and southern walls.

_Dear God_, something in Dean's brain said without his consent, _if you forget the murderous spirit angle then this is just like decorating with potpourri._

Dean's cell rang and broke the silence. He answered it, effectively ending the noise, and looked around to make sure Laura or Scott hadn't heard. It was Sam.

"Dean?"

"What, Sam? I'm kinda busy!" Dean hissed into the phone.

"I'm outside the Kruger house now. Dean you have to get out. The hoodoo isn't going to work."

"What are you _talking _about? 'Course it's gonna work."

"There was a fire," Sam said, sounding more and more panicked by the second. "Years ago-"

"I know, but that was a different house."

"But _this _house suffered smoke damage. They had to tear all but the front wall down and rebuild it. She can't be bound to this house, because it was destroyed. Trying to purify it's just going to piss her off. She's gotta be bound to something else."

"Shit. Then what do I do?"

* * *

There we go. Excitement! (And in case you're thinking the hoodoo thing was MAJORLY retarded then realise it's from the episode Home.) 

Thanks for reading! Please take the time to reveiw and feed my addiction.

Stay tuned for next chapter. Hopefully soonish but I never keep my promises ;-)


	15. Garden

It's been AGES. And usually when I write these things it takes like 1-2 days. Just a quick burst of enthusiasm and BAM it's done. But this one took me AGES to write. So it probably switches moods a few times.

Anyway, enjoy chapter... what am I up to? Fifteen? Yes. Enjoy it and please review it.

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

* * *

"Shit. Then what do I do?"

"We have to find whatever it is she's bound to," Sam said, sounding uncertain.

"I'm getting out of here," Dean said, trying to find an exit.

"Dean, you can't _leave_. Scott's in danger!"

"Scott's a jerk." Dean tried to open the front window of the house, but the shutters were down and the window wasn't opening.

"That might be true, but he's innocent. You can't let an innocent person die."

"Sam, _I'm _innocent! Do you care at all that _I _might die?"

Sam sighed. "Stay in there. She's probably locked the place down anyway." Dean gave the window a last feeble punch and conceded that Sam was right. "I'll find out what she's bound to and destroy it."

"What if you can't find it?" Dean asked, stomping around the house. "What if, while you're searching out there, she cuts Scott open, and I'm left in here to answer to the police?"

"Well, there are other ways of getting rid of a spirit. Maybe she can move on when she chooses to – have you tried reasoning with her?"

"I tried reasoning with her – it didn't work. She's deranged."

"How deranged?"

"Remember Bobby when you were seven and we broke his beard trimmer playing _Alien Invasion_?" There was a pause on Sam's end of the line.

"…Shit."

"Exactly."

"Well, just try to trap her in salt until we can figure out what to burn. As long as she can't kill you or Scott we can take as long as we like."

"And how do I do that?" Dean hissed, his voice rising. "I don't think she'll just step into the salt ring if I ask."

"Then ask _nicely_."

Dean scoffed. "I'll figure it out." He disconnected. After retrieving the bag of rock salt from the box, Dean formed a circle on the shiny floorboards. He stood and admired it for a moment, before going back to the box of hoodoo objects.

Truth was that Dean had never really understood Hoodoo. That was more Sam's thing – what with all the research and history behind all those different little charms. His eyebrows knitted at the little labels Sam had made: "Goofer Dust" "Angelica Root". All he'd remembered was Sam's frustrated instructions hissed at him earlier that day –he didn't know anything about simply _trapping_ a spirit with hoodoo. But what Dean _did _know was how to improvise.

It was at that moment that Scott walked past – a worried little shake in his step.

"Hey, Scott," Dean said in a spirited attempt at pretending the rock-salt circle wasn't there. Scott started and stared at Dean, eyes round and expressive.

"Ohhh… no, no," he said, shaking his head. He shut is eyes and put his fingers in his ears. "You're not there, I'm imagining it, just like that woman, you're _not really here!_"

"Trust me, I'm here."

"La-la-la," Scott said to himself, pacing back and forth as he stared at his shoes. He looked up and his forehead wrinkled when he saw Dean, still standing there. "Aw, shit. I've gone insane. Insane with grief." Scott's eyes were darting around the room and he was speaking rapidly. "I'll have to join little _support groups_ and go every Thursday night at seven-thirty to talk about my _feelings_. Or I'll have to see a therapist. That's ok, celebrities see therapists all the time and they're… well… shit my _mother _sees a therapist. I couldn't stand it if-"

Scott's rambling was interrupted when Dean slapped him sharply across the face. "I'm really _here!_" he bellowed. Scott blinked a few times.

"So I… I'm not crazy?"

"Well I'm not so sure about that. Where's Laura?"

"That woman? I'm not sure. She started crying and sort of…. disappeared. Uh, why are you in my house? You're not here to steal stuff or do anything _weird_ are you?"

"No, I'm trying to help you, I - I'll explain it all later," Dean said, shaking his head. "Listen, Scott, have you got any, like, blood laying around?" Scott gaped at Dean. "I'll take that as a no." Dean began to pace the house. He stepped into the kitchen and saw the bulk of the furniture ready for moving, and the appliances and dishes in little boxes next to the wall. "What about meat? You got any meat?"

"Uh, I dunno. I haven't bought any for…" Dean opened the refrigerator and sighed when he saw it almost completely empty. He opened the freezer and celebrated.

"Ha-ha!" he said, clutching a frozen steak in a plastic bag. He looked around at the boxes. "Got a microwave in any of these?"

"I'm not sure, I don't really… cook."

Dean opened several boxes and found a microwave. He lifted it out and plugged it in to the nearest electrical socket. "So, do you know how to work this thing?"

* * *

"I'll figure it out."

Sam put his cell back into his pocket and looked around the darkened backyard, half expecting the answer to just appear in a dazzle of blinding lights, or Dean to emerge from the backdoor with his head held high in victory. No such thing happened, so Sam was left to his own thoughts.

In his experience, spirits were bound to parts of themselves. As all parts of Laura Blake had been incinerated, Sam turned to the broader, less-literal interpretation. Spirits were often bound to objects important to them. Sam reasoned that Laura's marriage had been the most important thing in her life. Her husband had been cremated (probably too hacked-up to bury in that condition, Sam thought), and she wasn't bound to her house. That left Sam with… absolutely _no _leads, he realised. This was the reason Sam preferred to do the research on a job – he was much more thorough than adrenaline-driven, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants Dean. Grimacing as he buried that mental image in the depths of his mind, Sam paced the garden.

Maybe her family? Would Laura be with her family? No, she was around this house. It had to be something in the house, or near the house or around the house. Sam glanced up at the windows; certain he heard a faint noise. He crept closer the house in the dark, listening for another noise, but all he could hear was his feet on the rustly leaf debris. That was until he walked into a tool shed and let out a curse that rang through the street.

Sam looked into the small window at the side of the shed. It was filled with grubby garden paraphernalia and miscellaneous tools – something very surprising to Sam as Scott didn't strike him as an avid gardener. Which was probably why everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, Sam thought. He felt something familiar at that moment that he'd felt a few times before - a tingling at the back of his brain that told him he was seeing something important.

It was while pondering this that Sam was struck with the club of realisation, whacked with the stick of genius, and otherwise pummelled with the baton of understanding. He pulled out his cell phone and called Dean.

* * *

The microwave beeped and Dean gingerly pulled out the half-defrosted steak.

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing with my food?" Scott asked. He'd shut all the doors to the kitchen and stacked boxes up against them. Dean couldn't be bothered telling him it was useless.

"Kind of a séance," Dean said dryly. "Usually you use 'em to summon spirits. We can already _see _Laura, but I figured we can use this to trap her in that salt ring. And then we can work out how to destroy her."

"A séance? _Spirits?_" Scott muttered, mouth wide. "I'm obviously not the crazy one here."

"Look, I know it's hard to believe but I _am _trying to help. You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

"And let you slather my floors with meat?"

"That's called _trust, _Scott." At that moment Dean's cell chirped. It was Sam.

"Dean, do you have her trapped?" he asked immediately.

"Well, not yet. I'm in the middle if it."

"In the middle of what, exactly?"

"It involves a veal steak and a microwave. I like to think it's one of my better improvisations."

"Okay, well, in case that _doesn't _work I think I've worked out how to destroy her."

"How?"

"The heart. Her husband's heart which she cut out. It wasn't found. I just have to burn it."

"And you know where it is?"

"I think so."

"Well get on it." He disconnected and turned to Scott. "Things are looking up."

As if hearing his words, Laura appeared, apparently out of nowhere. Scott seemed thoroughly shocked at her infiltration of his impressive barrier of cardboard boxes.

"I've been thinking," she said to Scott in a strong effort to ignore Dean completely. "And I don't think I can bear rejection again, Scott. Especially not yours."

"So you've decided to move gracefully into the afterlife?" Dean asked hopefully.

"No, not quite. Scott doesn't love me now," Laura said softly. "But he might when he's like me. When he's alone with me all the time." Scott stifled a pitiful little squeak.

"When he's dead? You tried that with your husband and it _didn't work_," Dean said harshly. "Leave him alone and let him live his life!" Laura turned to Dean, who was immediately pinned against the wall. She twisted her face a little and Dean experienced a tight sensation around his neck, making it very difficult to breathe.

"I… Don't kill me!" Scott said feebly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry for whatever I've done!"

"You've done nothing, Scott," Laura said, advancing on him, tears in her eyes. "That's the _problem_."

Scott fell to the ground and clutched at his throat. It seemed he was choking too, but unlike Dean, he was developing big red marks where invisible hands were squeezing. He let out a shrill scream and thrashed about, covering his chest with his arms. Dean saw through watering eyes droplets of blood forming through Scott's shirt.

"You _deserve it!"_ Laura screamed. "_All_ of it!" She stepped back and watched Scott writhe, a look of complete despair on her face. Dean was still struggling for breath, trying to scream at Laura, yell to Sam for help. But he didn't need to.

Laura's expression changed to one of fear and finally to one of pain as she started to fade. Dean was released from the wall. He and Scott stopped choking as Laura watched her hands burning away. She let out an ear-piercing shriek.

"No! _No! _This… this _isn't right! _Help me!" Her face was the last thing to fade away, and Dean would never forget the sadness and pain on her face before it disappeared in a flash of fire and a puff of smoke. Scott groaned, face pale, shirt soaked in blood.

"Oh, God," Dean said, kneeling at his side, inspecting the cuts across his chest. Dean called Sam on his cell. "She's gone. Yeah, yeah, it's fine. We need to take Scott to the emergency room."

* * *

Wow, yay. Obviously story almost over. Thanks for reading - you've come a long way! Review me if you like :-)


	16. Mojito

I know, it's been ages. The long-awaited final chapter! (At least, I think it's the final chapter. I can always add more to the story at a later date. But I'm not promising anything)

Enjoy it! Thank you, to all my loyal fans! (And by that I mean my friend Mez.)

Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural :-(

* * *

Sam sat into the passenger seat, his face completely white besides the purple-grey circles under his eyes.

"So?" Dean asked.

"Scott's going to be fine. They had to give him a transfusion because he'd lost so much blood. And he needed stitches in his chest. And he has a minor concussion from when he fell on the floor."

"But that's all?"

"That's all."

"Awesome." Dean backed out of the hospital car park, and switched on the cassette player. It was now the early hours of the morning, and still pitch black out. Dean wanted nothing more to return to the hotel and sleep for the next three years, despite the fact he'd been asleep in the Impala for the last ninety minutes.

"Oh, Scott did give me something," Sam said lightly as they drove along. "Well, gave _us _something"

"If it's a hug it's then all yours, Sammy."

"No, this." Sam pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. Dean's mouth fell open as he caught a glimpse of the paper in the glow of a streetlight.

"A cheque… for five grand?"

"As a thank you. And also something to ensure we don't go blabbing about this 'incident'. Because then his mother would put him in therapy."

"See, that's what I call grateful," Dean said, beaming.

"Well, more terrified than grateful, I suspect."

"Same diff. So what was his excuse for the doctors?"

"Accident involving a set of garden shears," Sam said, looking over at Dean. Dean laughed.

"That's not very plausible."

"Well, he had full health cover, so the doctors weren't complaining. So, back to Scott's?"

"Oh, God no, he can clean that mess up himself."

"You left a steak in the living room. And I dug up the garden."

"We've already done enough, Sam. We're Good Samaritans. Haha, _Sam_aritans!" Sam scoffed.

"You need sleep, Dean. Maybe you'd rather _I _drive?"

"No, I'm good. We're almost at the hotel. Hey, where did you find that heart, anyway?"

"Buried under a rosebush in a potato sack."

"What? Seriously, a rosebush? Why couldn't she be like a _normal_ person and keep it in the freezer, or in concrete in the basement?"

"Normal people store human hearts in the freezer?"

"You know what I mean."

"Well, it makes sense, her roses were her passion after her husband died. It was a guess, it payed off."

"Oh, stop being somodestSam!" Dean said, ruffling Sam's hair. "It's not macho. Oh, I love this solo!" Dean turned up the speakers and air-guitared to _TNT_. Sam's hand lunged out of its own free will and clutched the steering wheel.

"So, we're going to stay here a couple days longer?" Sam asked hopefully, still in control of the steering wheel. Dean didn't seem to notice him, as he was moving enthusiastically to the music. "Dean?"

"Oy! Oy! Oy! What? Oh, yes. Remember, I haven't had _my _holiday yet."

"No, you've been _working. _You have to promise me you'll actually relaxnow."

"I will," Dean said, Sam looking over at him. "No! Really, I will." Sam smiled.

"Good."

* * *

"Mojito," Dean said slowly before finishing the last mouthful of the drink. He set down the glass and tried to suck the remnants of rum off the lime garnish.

"Mmmm?" Sam murmured as he leaned back on the deck chair, squinting at the sun. The brothers sat in silence, admiring the hotel pool, or, rather, a group of women enjoying the hotel pool.

Sam had cashed the cheque the previous day, and had given half to Dean. Sam's money was safe in his bank account, slowly gathering interest, while Dean's money was, Sam suspected, being slurped away by Dean in the form of Mojitos, Mai-Tai's and many other drinks Dean would never be caught dead ordering in one of his usual bars.

"Hey," Dean said finally, recognition in his voice. "It's that redhead." Sam looked up to see the redhead Dean had pointed at in a stunning yellow costume, looking at Dean with interest.

"Think she remembers you?"

"How could she not? I'm going over to apologise for my abhorrent behaviour." Dean stood up, and Sam smirked to himself when he noticed the imprint of the deckchair left in the form of big red stripes on Dean's back.

"Dude," Sam said. Dean turned.

"What?"

"Time for more SPF?"

"No, that stuff smells horrible and makes my skin all greasy. And Sam, for future reference, it doesn't sound cooler when you call it SPF." Dean put on a pair of sunglasses and strode over to the pool. Interestingly, in this environment he didn't feel the slightest embarrassment wearing shorts. Even his blindingly white legs had began to dim with exposure to the sun. Dean's face had begun to sport freckles, which he claimed only increased his 'boyish charm'.

"Well you do burn easily," Sam said under his breath. Sam waited until Dean was occupied by the group of women who were, Sam noted, fawning pathetically over him and his bruised arm. He reached under the deckchair and pulled out his book.

This was, Sam thought as he took a slurp of his _Sex On The Beach _(ordered by Dean despite Sam's request of a Vodka Sunrise, just so he could say the name to the waitress), the life. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud giggle coming from the group of women Dean was with. No doubt Dean had just said something hilarious. Sam looked up to see Dean calling him over.

"Come _on _Sam!" Dean shouted from the pool, bobbing slightly in the water. "This is my holiday and you're missing it! And for Gods sake, stop _reading._" Sam smiled and closed his book.

The End.

* * *

There it is, people! The final chapter! Please review, it makes me feel OH so happy! If there are any plotholes you've noticed, just tell em and I'll fix 'em.

Thank you for reading. :-)


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